In His Own Stars
by Euphonemes
Summary: Newly christened ambassador Martin Corregan went from his couch to another world, sent to help a creature known as Experiment Six-Two-Six, putting to the test his knowledge and skills in a complex and potentially hostile alien scene. Can Corregan help Six-Two-Six, or will he be overwhelmed by humanity's new galactic place? Will he return to Earth's sky, or be lost in his own stars?
1. One - 29 Hours In

**For good measure:**

 _Disclaimer : The following story is a fictional work. Any references to any persons, living or dead, are coincidental. This fiction is intended for personal consumption. It is not intended for commercial sale or distribution. "Stitch" and all related media © The Walt Disney Company. All other media included in the following work © Euphonemes._

 **A/N** \- Feedback is always appreciated. Please feel free to review at your leisure. (Please keep critical remarks clean and constructive.)

 **Enjoy _In His Own Stars_!**

* * *

 _One_

 _29 Hours In_

"In here, Ambassador."

The rusted iron door opened into a musty cell. Ambassador Martin Corregan's piercing blue eyes took a few moments to adjust to a thick darkness. He stooped a bit, his six-foot frame barely squeezing through the doorway. He brushed the lapels of his slim-fit three-button navy blue wool jacket and used long olive-skinned fingers to fix his meticulously coiffed auburn hair. Oak oxfords clacked as he stepped toward the plain chair positioned in the center of the room. Corregan paused and swiveled to the silhouetted guard at the cell door. "Thank you, sir," he tendered in an affable yet steady baritone.

The door swung shut, leaving Corregan with the dim halide bulb affixed to the ceiling to guide him to the lone chair. Bathed in the anemic circle of pale light, it looked to be an exceedingly uncomfortable steel contraption, an appearance validated as Corregan eased into its odd curvature. He drew in a few shallow breaths of stale air, hoping to stave off the resurgent anxiety that had earlier nettled him in the vessel that had delivered him here. Oxfords tapped on the floor, through which Corregan could feel the unfamiliar ground turning through infinite space. The thick darkness congealed along the edge of the bulb's reach. Taunting blackness had Corregan breathing harder.

The chair's convex back dug squarely into thoracic vertebrae. The ambassador tried to regulate his breathing as he leaned forward to escape the prodding furniture. His mind set itself to task. _Find it_. From within the pale circle, he scanned the dense shadows for his client. Corregan squinted piercing blue eyes, which discovered the outline of a curled form reposing in one corner. It growled as his gaze passed.

His voice jumped up half an octave, his tone steeped in measured concern. "It's okay," he cooed. "I'm here to help you."

The growl amplified, an anger reverberating around the tiny cell. Corregan nervously brushed at his lapel. "Come on now, don't be shy." Long fingers worked to draw it toward the pale circle. "Could you please come a little closer?"

No movement from the corner. He gulped and tugged at one of the gold buttons on his cuff. A tension built in his jacket's wool fibers. He hid a sigh born from frustration and nurtured by homesickness before beginning again. "My name is Martin. I'm from Earth. My boss sent me here to help you."

The outline reified when Corregan mentioned his now-faraway home planet's name. Long and swooping elliptic ears, each sporting a noticeable nick, perked up. Two antennae bobbled as it spun around the dark corner. Slowly, six limbs emerged from the shadows, its clawed paws dragging the rest of the creature into the pale circle of light. While most of its body was covered in an orange jumpsuit, Corregan could see small patches of sapphire fur covering its hands and jutting out from sleeves emblazoned with red and yellow triangles with rounded vertices. Three spines, composed of the same blue save for their black caps, projected through the back of the suit. It raised its head, a bulbous midnight blue nose noisily sniffing the air, and opened its mouth, revealing rows of sharpened teeth. Wide dark eyes, with motes of mischief brightening within, shimmered in the strange twilight.

"Earth?" it squeaked.

Corregan found himself smiling. _Progress_ , he commended, holding back the sigh of relief. "Yes, Earth. You're under Earth's protection now…and that of the United States of America," Corregan felt compelled to add. With an index finger, he tapped his jacket, atop the lip of the inner pocket. "That's where I've come from. We heard you could use our help."

" _Ih_ ," it nodded as it spoke, drawing its limbs around itself.

The ambassador crossed his legs, escaping the floor's chill that was permeating his oxfords. "Alright then, no need to waste time. Let's get started, Six-Two-Six-"

"Stitch."

Corregan stopped short of falling out of the convex chair. Quick hands restrained a shocked body, which had leaned further toward the creature below. He cleared his throat, buying a moment to decide what to say. "I'm sorry?"

"My name Stitch."

The correction almost stymied Corregan's legerity. He snuck a breath and relaxed. "Ah, okay then, my apologies. _Stitch_ , let's get started. We'll need to confirm your identity, so that we may proceed. Sound fair?"

Antennae bobbled as it nodded.

"Very well then." He produced a manila folder from the crux of his arm. The stacks of wafer-thin paper rustled as the ambassador searched for, and then sloppily collated, several reports-some typed, some neatly handwritten, and still others scribbled in nearly illegible writing. He screwed up his eyes as he sped through the pages and compiled his questionnaire. "Okay…who is your legal guardian on Earth?"

Corregan watched as the motes in its eyes tumbled toward the frigid floor. "Lilo…" it muttered, spines quivering. A pang of pity pealed in Corregan's gut. Its tone, wistful and sad, sent him back to Earth. He had left Jack waiting in front of the television, the DVR playing back the baseball game already through eight innings. The ambassador's phone buzzed as the crack of a bat resounded from the brand-new OLED TV. He had said he had to run down the street, to meet a friend. _Mostly true_ , he had told himself while walking out the door, chased by his son's call of a foul ball. The creature sniffled, bringing Corregan into the dank room again. He ran fingers through his hair, which was disagreeing with the fetid atmosphere of the cell, and moved on to the next question.

"Alright. And your creator is-"

A louder and cheerier response. "Jumba!"

"And how many years have you been a resident of Earth?"

The creature pondered for a few seconds, clattering claws against each other. As it stirred, Corregan thought of the puppy his father had promised to buy him years ago. Senior was on furlough from his position at a company whose name Corregan could never remember, taking time off from fulfilling the usual vaporous government contracts. They had traveled to the local mall, where a puppy who was licking the glass of the pet shop window had immediately enraptured the young Corregan. They were halfway through the sales transaction for the infant Australian Shepherd, and the clerk had already predictably commented on how Corregan was the "spittin' image!" of Senior, when the distant look clouded Senior's limpid hazel eyes. Senior's subsequent impromptu and nonsensical rant embarrassed Corregan so badly that he gave up on the dog and stormed out of the pet store. On the drive back to their Indiana home, Senior had promised to purchase a dog from a different store. Their family outlived three cats before they sold the house. The creature made a grunting noise and held up three clawed digits, which caught the pitiful light emanating from the halide sun bolted to the ceiling.

"Yes, good. What is the name of the island of Hawaii on which you live?"

"Mmm… _Kauaʻi_ ," it labored through sluggish syllables.

 _Better than I could manage_ , Corregan thought as he heaved an elephantine section of the folder out of the way. The ears had flopped over the creature's face, obscuring all but a sliver of wide dark eyes. An exasperated sigh emanated from behind enamel daggers, and as Corregan watched it flick its ears back into place, he felt a friendly warmth bubble from the shade of pink that lined their elliptic interiors. The unexpected warmth infused Corregan's tone with another shot of affability. "Great, thank you, Stitch! I'm satisfied. First things first, are they treating you well?"

" _Ih_."

"Is there anything I can procure for you? Better food, water rations, anything?"

" _Naga_."

Corregan flipped through some more of the documents in the manila folder. On the folder's back was scrawled "Tantalog: A Primer" in permanent marker, with a hastily constructed dictionary for the creature's primary language stapled below. The dim light made it difficult to read the minuscule writing, but he found it replete with a surprisingly rich vocabulary. Corregan squinted as he searched for his translation. "Let's see… _ih_ is 'yes', and, uh, _na-ga_ does mean 'no', correct?"

" _Ih._ "

"Right, apologies, my briefing on the language was… _light_ ," Corregan stressed as he shut the folder and returned it to his arm's crux.

" _Smish_ …erm, Stitch understand."

Corregan smiled. _Smarter than it looks, too_. "Thank you. So if I understand the situation correctly, you were here to finalize some sort of transition?"

"For Armada."

"Right, the Armada…that's the military branch of this government, right?"

It nodded.

"So they gave you the position of heading their Armada, you accepted for a, uh, very brief tenure, then you relinquished it, correct?"

" _Ih_ ," it said.

"How long ago did you give it up?"

The creature pondered, the claws moving invisible abacus beads through the fetid air. Corregan, whose breathing had quickened as he caught sight of encroaching blackness, waited a few stifling moments for it to calculate an answer. " _Tiznet_ …mm, _three_ months."

"Alright, so then after three months of nothing, you were called back to another meeting yesterday to finalize some elements of the transition…you didn't try to take it back, right?"

" _Ih_!" it shouted emphatically. Claws glinted brightly in the pale light as it gestured wildly, creasing its orange jumpsuit. "All done!"

"Okay," Corregan maintained his poise through shallow inhalations, "so then why are you here, in this cell? They haven't disclosed that to me yet."

Stitch seemed to brighten. Wide dark eyes shimmered, motes of mischief dancing over Corregan's face. His high-pitched voice squeaked in alacrity. " _Oketaka_. They say it is t…hmph…tr..."

Corregan leaned forward in his chair. The steel legs squealed as he moved. The pale circle started to shrink. "Yes?"

The creature had grasped its chin with one paw, the other limbs wound tightly around its chest. "Ah…" it hummed while it squinted, straining to remember the word. Corregan held his breath. The soupy blackness frothed around the edge of the circle. Suddenly, the creature was visibly bursting with enthusiasm. Wide dark eyes flew open, and Stitch's claw flew from his chin to the ceiling. " _Ikata_! Treason!"

#


	2. Two - 0 Hours In

_Two_

 _0 Hours In_

"Mr. Corregan, the President will see you now."

After nodding to the assistant, Corregan practically leapt from his cushy seat and jauntily strode into the Oval Office of the White House. Oak oxfords dug into the thick carpeting as he reached the center of the room. A man, slightly taller and lighter-skinned than Corregan and who wore a well-maintained amber coif already graying at the temples, stood with impeccable posture.

"Mr. President," Corregan greeted in his affable yet steady baritone as he extended a cordial hand.

"Martin! How are ya?" the President sprung forward with his usual verve and warmly embraced Corregan's salutation. The airy tone the President took when speaking, especially to close friends, belied his cold intelligence and expertly-honed strategic senses that had brought him to the Oval Office. Corregan always maintained an alertness when near his old friend, but he nonetheless graciously accepted the warm hospitality. The President gestured toward one of the two plush couches occupying the office. "Please, sit!"

Corregan unbuttoned his tailored three-button navy blue wool jacket and sat across from the President, who plunked down right on the edge of the cushion. They had been friends since the early days of the President's political career—Corregan had served on his campaign staff during his close race to his first term as a U.S. Representative from Indiana. They spent several congenial minutes catching up on their families and escaping from the thralls of their respective daily affairs.

"So Martin, your son will be headed off to college soon, right?"

"Yessir. We're still narrowing it down. Got a few months until application season opens, but still…Jack can be a bit, indecisive, at times."

"Your son, indecisive? Not sure where he got that from…" the President bandied with a grin. "Course, you always told me you were 'considering all your options' during our cases back at CitDef."

Corregan chuckled and gave a curt nod. Both the President and he had spent a few years as young and idealistic lawyers, working for the Coalition for Citizen Defenses—shortened to CitDef by the program's veterans. After the President's election to Congress, Corregan had moved into the private sector as a corporate consultant. His wife had given birth to Jack the day before the President took his first oath as a Representative, and the realities of becoming a father had tamped the fiery idealism of unburdened youth. _And I certainly can't pass up that paycheck_ , he had told his loving wife the night before he submitted his resignation from CitDef.

"Y'know, Martin, I can write a rec letter for Jack. He was a good page in Congress. Wouldn't hurt to have a letter from the White House in his back pocket." The President reclined back into the couch, stocky and genial fingers running along the seams of the ornate upholstery. "Even if it was written by an outgoing president."

"How have you been holding up, sir?"

"Hah, holding up, good one. A lame duck like me…Congress is standing in the bushes, rifle in hand, ready to put me out of my misery. Approval ratings are deplorable. Talking heads on the news have gotten even more bombastic—that bit actually impresses me." The southpaw reached for the bottle of spring water on the mahogany table dividing the two couches. Corregan involuntarily smirked at how he had ingrained in the President a compelling water addiction, and that the President's preferred brand had not changed since they shared a desk at CitDef. "Truth be told," the President began after taking a deep pull from the bottle, "I'll be pretty relieved when it's over."

"And then it's all Welton's problem, sir—if he wins."

" _If_ …now I like the sound of that!" he laughed, a sound which reverberated pleasantly around the decorated walls of the Oval Office. Corregan firmly believed that laugh is what won that first and extremely tightly contested seat in the House. It brought an indescribable energy to the air so privileged to carry it, which—like many of the President's constituency—had appealed to Corregan.

"Good, good. But—before you officially pass the buck, Mr. President—I assume there're a few things you want to get done. And I assume that's why I'm here."

Corregan reclined as the President sighed and probed with his hazel eyes every nascent wrinkle on Corregan's face. "I do, Martin. I have a mission for you."

"A mission?"

"Yes, one of diplomacy. I know you've been outta the civil liberties game for some time now, but back at CitDef, no one—and I mean _no_ _one_ —could hold a candle to the way you managed your cases. You've always been level-headed while still being open to novel ideas and approaches. I've admired that about ya for a long while."

"I appreciate the praise, Mr. President. But, surely there're more qualified people on your staff to deal with…whatever this is."

The President effortlessly amplified the intensity in his voice, the second-most important ability for his electability. "No. This one is all you, Martin."

A slight pause, then, "Sir, what exactly is this mission?"

The President scooted forward until he was practically squatting in front of the cushion. "Bear with me on it, okay? Promise me that first."

"I, uh…sure, yessir, of course."

"Alright. So, a couple of years back, we had a…an asylum-seeker who landed on American soil. He was an exile, a political refugee, and had taken up residence in Hawaii when we got to him. We extended the courtesy of protection, and he's been living here, quietly and without major incident, ever since."

The President drained the water bottle, which popped as it was disgorged, before he continued. "A few days ago, he was recalled by the government that exiled him, who claimed they were working to finalize something about removing him from a military commission, and then confirming his transfer to us. They promised him safe passage, that the issues from the past were buried. In fact, he had been back several times before, but this one…it seemed wrong. We had asked him to stay, but he chose otherwise. Twenty hours ago, we received a call." The President produced a recorder from his jacket pocket and played two messages—one in English, and one decidedly not.

Immediately, Corregan was awestruck, and his jaw hung open for the recorder's full two-minute playback. As the words of the tape disappeared, he struggled to make his own appear. After a few false starts, "I…sir, what…what language was that? Where exactly is this asylum-seeker? What country?"

"Not a country, Martin."

"Well, he's on this _planet_ at least, right?" Corregan glibly remarked. The President sat stoically. "Right, sir?"

"Martin, the asylum-seeker is an alien."

Corregan showed his teeth through a nervous smirk. "Well, sir, I know it's been awhile since you've practiced, but if they're from another sovereign nation, then, yes, they would be an alien…"

"No. The extraterrestrial kind."

It slipped out. Corregan tried to hold back the derisive snicker, but it surreptitiously sneaked out of the corner of his mouth. "C'mon, sir, those kinds of aliens don't exist. And even if they do, there can't be one living in Hawaii."

"You're right, not one. Over six hundred are."

His head filled with helium, and threatened to take his body up to the ceiling. Corregan sunk deeper into the couch, to be as leaden as possible. His ploy failed, and he began to rise. He clutched the armrest to keep from flying away. "How…how has nobody noticed? This should've hit the news the second they showed up."

"Martin, you know better than I that people will believe what they wanna believe. People think they're alone in this universe, and especially so on this planet. There's no reason to upset their understanding. Now these six hundred or so, they followed our asylum-seeker—they're all from similar stock. Fortunately, they're not all out and about at the same time. And the ones who are near to the public's view, they take great care to stay out of sight. It works."

Corregan took a moment to revel in amazement. _My child is growing up in a world with aliens_. For several hushed minutes, the two of them tumbled through a new reality. Corregan's sharp mind processed the President's disclosure, and then formulated all sorts of questions. He quickly chose the few he needed answered most urgently. "So my _mission_ would be to, what? Get him back?"

"As diplomatically as possible, yes. Compared to the government that has him, we're terribly under-advanced and out-gunned. We sure won't be able to extricate him by force. Diplomacy and negotiation are our best bet."

 _Our only bet_ , Corregan corrected in his head. "Why…" he swallowed. "Why is he being held?"

"That we don't know. They only called to adhere to his request for counsel. Nothing specific."

"Are…are they peaceful?"

"Aside from a few minor hiccups, yes, they haven't been belligerent. The ones who are here, they just want to be left alone. The ones up there, well…we're not sure. They've never been hostile before, but…."

"Uh—Mr. President, I…I don't think I can…" Corregan stumbled in a sudden loss of fluency.

Congenial hands begged for his ear. "I understand, Martin, it's a _lot_ to ask. I could barely believe it myself when I first found out about 'em. Your head must be reeling, it must seem unreal, but Martin, you're the _best_ man for this job, I know it—I feel it. Please, Martin."

Corregan sat, transfixed by limpid hazel eyes. They shimmered in a familiar way, a way he remembered from long ago. Familiar, yet discomforting. Yet powerful. He sighed. "How do I get there?"

"So you're in, then?" Corregan hesitated, for an instant, then nodded his assent. The President, who did not seem to notice the pause, closed his hazel eyes for a moment and let a tremendous weight slide off his shoulders. "Great, that's…wonderful, Martin. Thank you. Okay, right, so, you'll be serving as our Special Envoy on this endeavor—congratulations, Ambassador." He flourished the title with the cheeky grin he wore to big campaigning events. Corregan waved him off, and the President, looking slightly wounded, continued. "The aliens have arranged transportation for our dignitaries. He's being held on their government's capital word, a place called Turo."

"So you're sending more than just me, then?"

"Correct, Martin. One other, actually. That's what the aliens limited us to."

"I see. So who's the other?"

"Well, we'll get to that, but first, any other questions?"

Corregan mulled as he sorted the questions in his head over and over. He finally settled on, "Sir, what about political blow-back? What if another country finds out we're harboring extraterrestrial beings? Or sees us undertake this mission? And the United Nations, if they get involved. I mean, the implications could be staggering…."

"You don't worry about that part. Let a lame duck handle that."

"Even so, sir, this isn't something that'll be swept under the—"

"I'll handle it, Martin. Trust me."

Corregan was puzzled. The President's sudden intensity had new questions sprouting in Corregan's mind, questions which he quickly harvested. "Sir, why are you so concerned about this creature? It seems that we could avoid a big headache if we just…let it be, or let this other government have its way. What are we getting out of this?"

The President let out what sounded to Corregan as years of pent-up exasperation. He rubbed his chin as his hazel eyes wandered around the office. Corregan recognized his tell from their days at CitDef. "Another agenda, sir?"

"No, Martin, it's not like that. It's…look, these aliens inviting us to the table, it's, unprecedented. We've known about them for years now, but we've never been part of the process, only bystanders. With our active role in this, we can become part of the galactic community. Think on that—untold economic expansion, practically magical technological innovation, a completely new social order. It changes the very understanding of man's place in this universe. It's exciting and terrifying, Martin. It certainly won't happen overnight, but a chance is all we need to open the door. This is our chance," he gestured firmly as he spoke, "to show these beings that we _belong_ at the table. If I could go myself, I would in a heartbeat, but…duty calls," he finished while his eyes landed on the front of the _Resolute_ desk, set against the backdrop of tall bay windows. The embossed presidential seal on the hinged front panel glowed warmly in the morning light streaming into the room.

 _You are a lame duck._ Corregan snorted, an action he did not mean to sound as flippant as it did. The President wheeled back to him. "And how can we achieve all of that, sir?" Corregan eased his tone. "What can I do?"

"You, my friend," the President knocked his knuckles against the table in time with his speech's rhythm. "You can be the best damned representative of humanity that you can be. A lot rides on this, Martin. Humanity's future could very well be at stake." They sat for a subdued minute. "Martin, are you still in?"

Corregan raised his head, and slowly nodded. The President smiled before Corregan resumed his interrogation. "So who received the call?"

"Well, it was recorded and given to our point-man by the alien's…ehm, handler."

"Handler? Who's that?"

"Well, she's technically his legal guardian, you could say. Very bright, tenacious young woman."

"How young?"

"Oh, right about, uh, ten years old now."

Corregan had to fight back the snicker again. "Sir, a galactic government communicates with humanity through a ten-year-old girl?"

"She's very bright."

 _A little girl as the spokesperson for the human race_ , Corregan marveled. He filed away the concern for later and did his best to appease the President. "Y'know, I…fine. Fine. Who's the point-man?"

"Former CIA asset. Been our main point of contact with the girl and has worked with the aliens since their arrival. Isn't too keen on helping out his old employer, but he's the one with the most…experience dealing with these folk."

"Will he be accompanying me?"

"Uh, no. He has been tasked with another part of handling this mess. And the aliens were very clear that only one human representative was to be on this trip."

Corregan's stomach dropped out from under him. "Sir. Who is the other dignitary?"

The President rose from the couch, leaving Corregan stumbling to his feet as he copied. Together, they strode to the desk. The President produced a small key, unlocked one of the bottom drawers, and rifled through reams of national security and policy briefs before plopping a manila folder, thickened by inserts protruding in several directions, onto the desk. "All the pertinent reports from our CIA point-man. Everything you need is in there. I've also marked the bio of your partner for this mission."

"Sorry sir, but…is that _paper_?"

"Oh, you noticed?"

Corregan ran a finger along the ragged edge of obsolescence. "Why, sir? What's wrong with a nice electronic unit? Or a tablet? Or…well, anything else?"

The President flashed a reassuring smile—a campaigning smile. "Trust me, it'll make sense soon. But, I suggest you give those papers a good read during the car ride over."

Corregan hefted the folder, halting a few pages that threatened to slip out, and asked, "Ride where, sir?"

The President smiled wider. Corregan' stomach fell to the floor. "To the launch site. You leave now."

#


	3. Three - 7 Hours In

_Three_

 _7 Hours In_

Corregan's jaw dropped when the car that picked him up from the private airport let him out at the massive launch vehicle complex. A flamboyantly red ship was perched on its side along a gantry, its sleek nose pointed toward the sky. Its fuselage was shapely, not unlike the flashy 1950s sports car that Senior had driven into a deep gully one night nearly two decades ago. Senior had stumbled from the wreck relatively unscathed, making it a half-mile down a dwindling stream before a Good Samaritan and his pickup truck found him beating his fists against the fresh mud in a roadside _wadi_. Corregan had been cramming for his first semester of law class finals when his mother called him and, through her histrionics, he deduced what had happened. He had visited Senior in the hospital, and the image of him lying semi-conscious in the bed as the orderlies prepped the next round of sedatives was the last one Corregan held onto.

A corrugated tin shack had been hastily erected several hundred yards from the base of the massive ship. As he traversed the distance, Corregan's eyes wandered up the ship again, and he wondered about Jack. The Secret Service had confiscated his phone immediately after leaving the White House. "Mitigating risks of exposure," they had repeated during Corregan's several attempts at retrieval. He wanted to tell Jack everything—the truth about the world, their new place in it, the ship standing in front of him. And he wanted to know how the game had ended. The sun passed behind a rare cloud, jarring him back to the shack. He found several Marines in military fatigues guarding the ramshackle entrance. Corregan was immediately allowed passage inside. He savored the chilled air, a brief reprieve from the tail end of an oppressive Southern Florida summer.

Four other guards occupied the corners of the shack. While they could have passed for Marines, they certainly served a different world's forces. The tallest of the creatures reached Corregan's sternum. They were clad in head-to-toe white jumpsuits, with opaque faceguards obscuring whatever features would be there. A special extension had been sewn into their suits, letting the creatures' thick tails both be covered and swing freely. Three-fingered gloves clothed their two hands, which gripped smoothed yellow cigar-shaped objects that Corregan guessed to be weapons of some kind. He felt his conclusion verified as the four objects swiveled in his direction upon his entrance.

He quickly raised up his hands, and the guns relented. As the guards returned to their stations, Corregan saw the rotund creature ahead of him, mumbling incoherently and fidgeting, with its back turned to the door. Corregan produced the massive file entrusted to him by the President, and flipped back and forth until he discovered the one-page write-up he needed. A quick perusal, and he moved forward and tapped the creature on its back.

"You must be Dr. Jookiba," Corregan ventured, extending his hand as the creature rotated. Halfway hidden beneath a tacky yellow Aloha shirt stretched to the brink of oblivion, its corpulent tan belly shuddered as it breathed. Four compact yellowed eyes, nearly level with Corregan's own, blinked in unison as it cocked its head, seemingly studying Corregan's features in much the same way as the President had done. An intelligence, profound and amiable yet tainted by an infectious darkness, burned deeply within the orbs. After a few moments, mauve arms reached forward and ensnared his hand.

"Hello there, Ambassador! A pleasure to be meeting you!" Dr. Jookiba's roughhewn voice exclaimed. Corregan reeled. He had not expected to understand the aliens, yet this one spoke commendable English, even if its heavy and dusky accent clung mercilessly to the _h_ 's and _g_ 's. "Come, come. These…cretins here, they are requiring us to depart already. And I had just gotten used to the coolness in here." The doctor's arms shined with a thin film of sweat as he hiked up his cargo pants, picked up a long rectangular silver case that had been resting at his oblong feet, and escorted Corregan to the door. The squad of white-clad guards followed the duo into the harsh sun blazing over the path toward the ship.

Both the doctor and Corregan blinked furiously in the sudden onslaught of white light. Corregan shielded his eyes with a hand and began, "Dr. Jookiba, I would like to say that—"

"Oh, please, call me Jumba! No need for stuffy formality, _Ambassador_."

 _Ambassador_ , Corregan shivered as Jumba said it. _Hope I get used to that soon._ Corregan hid his discomfort behind a cavalier smirk and pressed on. "Ah, of course, Jumba. I would just like to say I look forward to working with you."

"Hmm, what a nice thing to be saying. Even if it is not entirely true."

"Why would you think that?"

"Ambassador, when I turned around to greet you, your look of surprise, it was, eh, giving you away. You are not used to seeing, ehm, non-humans around, yes?"

"That obvious?"

Jumba nodded. "We'll need to be practicing a bit on ship before we reach Turo. A look like yours could spell doom for our mission. And not kind of doom I enjoy." As they approached the entry point of the large red ship, Jumba cackled, a throaty and not wholly pleasant, but tolerable, sound. With the threshold looming, Corregan pined for the warmth of his friend's rich laugh bouncing in the Oval Office.

"Jumba, tell me more about this creature," Corregan requested as they entered the belly of the ship. Harsh natural light was instantly replaced by dry artificial lamps. The scent of sterile steel had beaten back the fragrant Floridian air. A wave of chill washed up his arms, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

"Ah, yes. My greatest creation! Six-Two-Six is real masterpiece. Promise of total galactic destruction, wrapped up in one tiny, fluffy, adorable package. Truly genius."

"Yeah, my briefing mentioned he was a weapon of some kind…" Corregan absentmindedly thumbed through a few pages of the folder.

"No, no, not _a_ weapon. _The_ weapon. Greatest of all time!" Jumba threw his hands in the air. His excitement quickly fell back as he continued. "But, didn't work out that way. He found, ehm, _kindness_ —something Jumba should've expected, in hindsight—and now he poses no real threat to galaxy, despite my best urgings. So, I am not sure what he could have been doing to anger Federation."

"And the Federation is—"

" _United Galactic Federation_ ," Jumba spat. "Pompous ingrates, all of them! They consistently mistake my genius for madness. Or for _idiocy_ —pah! They think they can do what they please with my creations. They do not understand Experiments like I do."

Corregan finally settled on a page and sped through it. "If I remember correctly, you are an exile, like your Experiments. Will they even let you be a part of this excursion?"

Jumba cackled again. "Ambassador, they have no interest in detaining me again. They care only for my creations. Experiments are what frighten them, not this." He slapped his stomach, and the tan expanse rippled. "Even though Federation is full of imbeciles, they will leave us be."

"Frighten them, how?"

"I would be assuming, Ambassador, that ever-insistent Cobra put something about Experiments in that—paper file, hmm, nice touch. Much harder for Federation to steal data, heh." He tapped a plump finger against the smooth manila folder. Corregan instinctively tightened his forearm's grip. "Ah, more practice for you, Ambassador," Jumba proclaimed.

They had been progressing down a gray walkway, their guards prodding them along with stern postures and sterner weapons, when a large door appeared at the end. It effortlessly gave way into the wall as the cohort moved into a bustling hive. More of the creatures like the guards were seated in oversized chairs in front of consoles arranged along the perimeter of a precisely-drawn circle. Their faces were not covered, and Corregan had to devote extra willpower to keeping his jaw clamped as he walked past dozens of alien faces. Their looks were unassuming, and a few even reminded him of certain species that roamed the marshes surrounding the launch site. _Gecko, garter snake, greenhouse frog_ …he named as he went. All stared back as the duo was escorted to plush chairs on a raised platform in the middle of the chamber.

"Hmph," Jumba snorted as he caressed the edge of his seat. "I am somewhat surprised they did not send Gantu."

"Gantu…I know that name!" Corregan rifled through his folder. "Yeah, Captain Gantu, isn't he in charge of operations like these?"

"Usually, yes, but…ah, that's right, I remember now, heh heh…" Jumba devolved into breathy chuckles.

Corregan was bewildered. "Where is he?"

Jumba waved him off. "Let us just say, I would not want to be being where he is now."

Corregan readied to press the point, but another thought struck him. A few flips through the folder, and his brow furrowed. "So, wait, Gantu used to be in charge of the Federation's Armada, right?"

"You are correct, Ambassador."

"So if he's…unavailable, who's in charge of those ships?"

"Ah, you have hit upon excellent point! There is massive power vacuum in Armada. Federation Council has been acting as managers for several Earth months. Grand Councilwoman is surely pleased by that. Will be interesting to see how this all will be turning out in future."

Corregan knew that name. "The Grand Councilwoman is involved? How does that—"

"Ach!" Jumba shouted as he pointed toward an impatient-looking ophidian creature at the helm. "Let us be saving that for later. For now, I am thinking it would be prudent, Ambassador, to be sitting down."

They took their seats and strapped in. As the guards dispersed, Corregan leaned over to Jumba and whispered, "So why are they frightened by—"

Jumba quickly shushed him. "Not here, Ambassador!" he strained. "Later, once we are on Turo."

Corregan nodded and leaned back into his chair. The melodious whirs of alien machinery soothed his overclocked mind. The rigors of discovering that humanity was far from alone in the galaxy had worn him down considerably. Even as he nestled into the velveteen fabric, tendrils of dread still crept up from the pit of his belly, a fear he recognized was rooted not in his current circumstances, but in the potential of what lay ahead.

"Ambassador, I have question for you," Jumba said.

Corregan disengaged from his musings and replied, "Sure, what's on your mind?"

"I am curious—why do you think you are here?"

Corregan tried to bury the flummoxed look and failed. "What do you mean?"

"Why did humanity get called to be part of this?"

Corregan shrugged as a whimsical chime dinged in the cabin. "Our planet, our rules. We may not be as advanced, but your Experiment is seeking asylum here. Seems only right that we are the ones to go to the negotiating table."

"Sure, sure," Jumba dismissed. "But…see, I was tremendously surprised to find out that humanity would be having representative. Knowing Federation like I do, it is _very_ shocking indeed. You are—how to say, eh—comically under-advanced. No offense, but your ineptitude may be posing serious problem in our quest to retrieve Six-Two-Six."

Four beady eyes blinked in unison. Corregan took his time staring into each one. An intelligence burned within them, Corregan did not doubt that. Yet as he waited, something started to seethe behind the yellowed orbs. Corregan smiled as an understanding dawned, one he kept to himself at present. "Well then, guess I'll have to try not to screw up too badly," he casually scoffed.

A rumbling which surged from the aft overtook Jumba's guffaws. Vibrations shuddered through the floor into Corregan's bones. He squeezed the armrests and closed his eyes. Inertia's fingertips lightly touched him, easing him into the chair's back. Corregan thought of how it would look from the ground, the massive red vessel with flames erupting from below, readying to pierce the clear blue sky and rocket toward a far-off world.

"We shall see about that!" Jumba's voice barely carried over the roar of takeoff.

#

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Coming 1 June - _Four_


	4. Four - 32 Hours In

_Four_

 _32 Hours In_

The cell door clanged as a guard sealed it behind Corregan. He squinted through harsh light, and brushed off the residue of fetid darkness that clung to his jacket. Ahead, Jumba was camped out along the wall, bouncing on the balls of his oblong feet, wracking his plump hands. The guards had stopped the doctor at the door, and despite his protracted huffing, they had stood their ground. A look of deep anguish had seized his face. "Ah, you're back! What took so long? Is Six-Two-Six alright?"

"He says he is. Cell is a little dingy, but it's passable."

Jumba's hands stopped their squeezing and went to work smoothing out the wrinkles of his Aloha shirt. "Good, glad to be hearing that. We must go down hall. His jailors want to talk." He pointed down the long corridor toward a distant door. Without hesitation, they double-timed, Corregan's oxfords clattering against the steel gratings underfoot.

As they walked down the bright but overbearing tubelike hallway, Corregan regaled Jumba with Stitch's revelation. "What do you think of it?"

"Pah, treason! This is all for show! I think they are holding Six-Two-Six for some other reason."

Corregan's head bobbed. "You're probably right, but, regardless…do they have a case?"

"They fear him. They will be finding case, whether true or not."

"But why are they so frightened of him? Looks fairly harmless to me."

"Well, of course! That is how I designed him. One minute, he is cute and fluffy critter. Next, he tears apart planet!" Jumba emoted through contorted fingers. "Federation was right at first to fear him—treasonous behavior engrained by nature, with some help from Jumba. But, after how much time he has spent on Earth, he would not easily revert to natural programming. Whether they believe it or not, there is nothing left for Federation to fear from him."

"So it's all for show?"

"Absolutely!"

They reached the door at the end of the hallway. Corregan drew a big breath and preened his jacket, picking the motes of dust from his lapel. Jumba set down the silver case and again tried to smooth the insolent wrinkles from his Aloha shirt. Corregan went to ask about the case, but instead decided to employ the few precious seconds toward corralling his mind's other rampaging thoughts.

"Ambassador," said Jumba, "I think it would be best if I would be letting you do all talking in there, yes?"

"Mighty gracious of you, Jumba,"the ambassador answered with a smirk.

"Yes, yes, I know, heh heh," he chuckled while depressing the button next to the door. The steel plate shot away, exposing a tiny office cluttered with an impressive assortment of detritus. Within a forest of metallic junk and scattered alien refuse, two beings rose from their chairs set behind a plain steel desk. At first glance, they both reminded Corregan of the hawks that would circle his family's property bordering an Indiana state park. The summer before heading to law school, Senior and he had sat on the back porch with two iced-down six-packs in a Styrofoam cooler and watched the raptors dive-bomb their prey rustling through the tall grasses. The breathtaking splaying of wings as they swooped elicited short cheers and long sips from the porch. It was the only time that Corregan could connect with Senior, whose distant gaze would return to his son with each cheer. They had set a date to repeat the event the next summer, where Corregan would bring the Styrofoam cooler and Senior would supply the drinks. The empty cooler had rested in a corner of the concrete porch until they sold the house.

The taller one spoke first in a confident tenor. Corregan estimated the being to stand at twelve or thirteen feet and weigh several hundred pounds more than himself. The creature's marbled maroon plumage, visible on his face and arms, seemed to consume the light in the room as feathers shifted fitfully. Gray eyes darted across Corregan's nascent wrinkles. A grayer suit, which looked exceedingly formal for any culture, covered the rest. His ivory beak clacked as he greeted the duo.

"Hello, Ambassador. Doctor. I am Undersecretary Thoom'bah Rhys'la. This here is the Chief-Elect of the Bureau of Internal Security on Turo, Falmah'ar Thyse'ant." Slightly shorter than Rhys'la, Thyse'ant straightened his posture and his navy blue suit when his name was spoken. Corregan was awestruck by the chief's expansive pavonine tail and his set of feathers that shifted iridescently through an astounding assortment of colors with the ease of an oil slick. Terrifying crimson irises stood vigil over Thyse'ant's aquiline gray beak, which sported a hairline fracture running crosswise.

After Corregan greeted the undersecretary, he went to shake the hand of the chief-elect, a move that elicited a surly crimson look. Corregan reaffirmed his maneuver, and gasped as impossibly sharp talons raked across his palm. The terrifying irises bored into Corregan as he retracted. "He is a sharp one," Rhys'la continued, "and I've asked him to sit in on this meeting to get a feel for how business is conducted in the…higher Turan echelons."

"Of course, Undersecretary. It's our pleasure." Corregan wiped at the claw marks on his palm as Jumba and he nestled into their chairs. The undersecretary's desk rested on a raised platform, which had Corregan craning his neck beyond comfort.

"Would either you care for a refreshment?"

"Um, yes, a…water would be appreciated," Corregan managed over Jumba's refusal. He briefly considered the President's story of his first trip out-of-country, assisting a client for CitDef. He had drank a few cups of the local water, and then had fallen severely ill for the better part of a week. The inchoate worry did not stop Corregan from accepting the neat glass that was hastily delivered amid the opening salvos of diplomacy.

"Hmph, of all the concoctions in the galaxy at your disposal, you select something so simple. How…telling," thundered Thyse'ant. His booming voice ricocheted between the walls of the surprisingly cramped office of someone as auspiciously titled as Council Undersecretary.

"Come now, Falmah'ar. Be polite. These two have traveled far to talk with us."

Thyse'ant huffed as Rhys'la turned back to Corregan and Jumba. "I appreciate your speed in addressing this matter, Ambassador. Though it is a quickly developing situation, with you here, we should be able to expedite an agreeable solution."

After a few swigs from the glass, Corregan nodded and smiled. "Thank you for your hospitality, Undersecretary. I, too, hope we can reach an agreement swiftly. Is everyone here who should be?" he asked as he cautiously swiveled his head and scanned the room.

"Indeed, Ambassador," confirmed Rhys'la.

"I see…now, I was informed that the, ehm, Grand Councilwoman would be involved in these negotiations."

"Ah, that was our original plan, yes. But plans do change, Ambassador."

"Still, I think it would be best to find a way to have her take part in these negotiations."

"She is indisposed at present."

"Really? I had heard she thoroughly enjoys taking direct roles in these types of discussions," Corregan stated as his gaze sidled over to Jumba. A barely perceptible shrug from the doctor sent a small shiver racing down his spine. _Jumba had seemed so sure_.

"Normally, yes, she does. But she cannot with this one."

Corregan thumbed the edge of the manila folder tucked under his arm, whose grip had tightened when he rebuffed the guards eager to relieve him of the barely held together reams of information. He remembered her glossy headshot paper-clipped to the page, her azure skin that expertly sheened in the camera flash. Cerulean irises encased in hardened obsidian glared through the photograph with an intensity reserved for the most seasoned of starlets. Her attached biography told her many tales of political vaudeville, yet Corregan was most intrigued by the thought of how a being of her more gracile build would move about this cramped room, and if she would do so with greater fluidity than the two oafs seated aloft.

Sensing the ramparts rising around the issue, Corregan moved forward. "Very well then. Now, I've met with the accused, and he has given me authority to represent him in these matters. I have a document signed by the detainee attesting to this…" he faded while he flipped open the manila folder and began to rummage through its interior, looking for the page with the ink paw print stamped on the signature line.

"No need to produce it at this time, Ambassador. We'll take you on your word," Rhys'la conceded.

 _Awfully lax_ , Corregan noted as he shut his folder. "Okay, then let's get going. First off, the prisoner is under the impression that there was an offer for safe passage to the meeting concerning his transition from his position with the Armada, and that such courtesy had been extended for his transit home. Why was this courtesy denied?"

"Yes," the undersecretary answered in a measured tone, "the courtesy of our protection had been extended, however—"

"He violated a Federation mandate," boomed an impatient Thyse'ant.

"Is that why he's being charged with treason?" Corregan quickly interjected.

Rhys'la's beak dropped in what looked like a frown, and was perhaps gathering himself to respond, but the chief-elect plowed ahead. "After his creation, the Federation tried him—and the _doctor_ ," Thyse'ant hissed while crimson irises bored into Jumba. "Following some…confusion on the enactment of their sentences, they were both banished to your planet, a decision that left plenty in the Federation disquieted. Then the Experiment returned to Turo several times, which, even by invitation of the Council, is in direct defiance of the Federation's will. He even became the head of our military forces. The Council not only allowed it, but actively encouraged and enabled this to happen. It was too unbearable to let continue, and with the Council abetting the Experiment, a majority of the Federation's planetary delegation took matters upon itself to redress their grievance."

"By arresting him now? It took this long to get around to it?"

Thyse'ant's iridescent plumage shifted through ultramarines and fuchsias. "The measure previously had been…stalled."

 _Because she had been there to stall it_ , Corregan almost finished for him. Thyse'ant's cool and cocky crimson irises, however, had the ambassador hold his tongue and redirect the conversation. "Now, from the way you describe it, such an action by the accused on my planet would be akin to a violation of settlement terms, which can be dealt with severely—but, in this case, certainly not as treason, as a willful and malicious act against a state. This appears to be overreaching."

"With all due respect," Rhys'la wrestled the reins from Thyse'ant, "we are not on your planet. Our laws may be written a bit differently. For us, violating the judgment of a tribunal, one endorsed by the full delegation, can be considered a treasonous act. Such a blatant infringement does stand as anathema to the absolute rule of law in our Federation."

"I see. Then why was he allowed to parade about Turo until now?"

Rhys'la seemed ready to sigh, but continued anyway. "Drafting articles of treason is a…cumbersome process. We have many worlds and an incredible plurality of opinions within the Federation. Normally, our Council would curate all of these voices and guide us to a solution, but the delegation taking the matter upon itself requires much more time and energy. The culmination of these efforts coincided with the Experiment's arrival for the transition, and so—after some perfunctory resistance from the Experiment—the warrant was executed and Six-Two-Six was imprisoned."

Corregan shifted in his chair. _The wheels of justice turn slowly everywhere in this galaxy._ He tugged at one of the golden buttons on his jacket, thinking on his next line of questioning. He could hear Jumba rustling and clearing his throat. Under the desk, Corregan curtly waved off Jumba and, hoping the doctor had seen his motion, took a few moments more of pensiveness before beginning with, "Sir, I—".

Thyse'ant's grunt obtruded. "See, Undersecretary, you should have objected more ardently to them even being included in these proceedings. If this _hu_ -man does not comprehend the fundamentals of our legal system, then surely he cannot comprehend what is at stake."

"And you should comprehend the benefits of staying quiet, Chief _-Elect_ ," Rhys'la admonished in an unsubtle aside. "My apologies, Ambassador. The training at Internal Security can inculcate some severe _brashness_ in its agents."

Corregan grappled for his question as he accepted Rhys'la's apology. "Of course, it's fine. I was taking a moment to determine how our legal systems align. You see, under our code, the Experiment had been granted asylum, which affords him our government's protection from external agents and from a rendition like this."

"Doesn't your world still have nations?" Thyse'ant lambasted.

"Yes, however, we do have a body that represents the interests of all nations, who have vested in me the authority to carry out these proceedings," Corregan fibbed. _Hopefully the President is taking care of that bit_. "And this international body also upholds the sanctity of asylum. So," he turned back to Rhys'la, "I question the validity of this arrest, especially since our people were not consulted prior to his detainment."

"Of course, Ambassador. As I'm sure you're aware, our technological differences make it difficult to communicate on a regular basis. With this opportunity to detain the Experiment, Internal Security—under the Federation's direction—decided to proceed without a second party's approval. As we see it, the charges levied against him outweighed the need to seek…permission."

"And Internal Security is a planetary organization, not a Federation one, correct?"

"Yes," Rhys'la affirmed while his gray eyes drilled into Thyse'ant. "It is." Thyse'ant mumbled something unflattering under his breath.

"I believe I understand," Corregan equivocated, "but we may soon need to revisit the point concerning detainment. For now, though, can you explain the procedure for a trial on a charge of treason?"

Rhys'la emitted a tinny tittering sound from his ivory beak, which Corregan would discover to be some odd thrill the creature derived from the opportunity to enumerate galactic rules of order. "Delighted to, Ambassador. The accused is brought before the full Federation delegation. Charges are read. The Federation presents a case first. The accused has the opportunity to rebut. The delegates vote on guilt, and a three-quarters majority convicts."

"Simple enough. Who presides?"

"The Grand Councilwoman typically presides. And yes, that is a big part of why she is not here today."

"But not the whole reason," Corregan tried again.

" _Argh_ , damned primate," grumbled Thyse'ant, just loud enough for Corregan to hear. Rhys'la's subsequent glare sent the chief-elect shrinking into his chair.

"I won't comment on that," Rhys'la strained through a beak clenching in obvious fury.

Corregan marked the hot-button issue for later in the dialogue, then soldiered on. "Fine. And if convicted, what is the usual punishment?"

The beak slackened. Rhys'la's gray eyes shuttered. He released the long-caged sigh. Corregan peered over at Jumba, whose mauve arms had paled. He thumbed the edge of the folder again, and thought of the hawks swooping into the tall grass and his cheers from the porch and sips from the perspiring can. Corregan pined for the summer day as Rhys'la spoke in a cold and stern tone, his ivory beak mouthing the word deliberately. "Death."

#

* * *

Coming 6 June - _Five_

 _ **A/N** \- Feedback is always appreciated. Feel free to leave a review below! (Please keep critical remarks clean and constructive.)_


	5. Five - 48 Hours In

**_Update:_** _An inaccuracy concerning Experiment numbering was brought to my attention. It has been resolved. I have also updated the same section with a suggestion. My thanks to **DevinathePikachu** for noting the inaccuracy and for offering a good suggestion._

* * *

 _Five_

 _48 Hours In_

"Long day, Ambassador?"

Jumba's subsequent cackle drew a weary smile from Corregan, who had spent twelve hours bargaining for Stitch's life. Both sides proved intractable in their positions. Corregan's requests for reducing the charge, relocating Stitch to Earth prior to his tribunal, changing the venue, and copping an outright plea deal with no death sentence had all been summarily rejected. Thyse'ant had been ready to slaughter Stitch on the spot, his bloodlust tempered only by Rhys'la's sagacious application of reason and admirably inhuman patience. The only success Corregan had walked away with was the postponement of the tribunal for several days so that he could learn the nuances of galactic law. Thyse'ant had beamed, as Corregan knew it would be impossible for him to even get his toes wet in the ocean of galactic law by the tribunal's commencement.

The duo exited from the main transit conduit and came upon the spacious residential section of the gargantuan Turan capitol building. The section consisted of one long hallway, and every ten feet stood a door that would not look terribly incongruous in a fine Earth hotel. Corregan thought it elicited a strange yet alluring retro-futurism vibe, one incorporating the more natural elements of this faraway world. He admired the many types of foreign flora springing from the floor, and he sniffed at the rather intoxicating and alien aromas that clouded the lobby. His mood stayed sour though, and as a nearby attendant made a move to take his folder, Corregan replied with a rough shooing motion. The attendant seemed perturbed as she wandered away. "I wish we could've gotten somewhere meaningful with them," Corregan sulked.

"Eh, relax. Is first day of negotiation. They try to soften you up."

"Jumba, I think this may be the _only_ day of negotiation. They don't seem to have much of an interest in anything other than his execution."

"Hmm, perhaps. They have been quite skittish about treasonous acts since failed Hamsterviel Usurpation not too long ago."

"The what?"

"That is not in your precious folder?" After Corregan shook his head, "Ach, never mind. I will tell later." Jumba wrinkled his nose, and concern seeped into his gruff voice. "Have you tried seeing Six-Two-Six again?"

"Not since my attempt at the end of the meeting." Corregan had emerged from the Undersecretary's office—which after twelve hours had grown into an effective though extremely unpleasant sauna—and strode down the chilly gray hallway to the cell door bordered by two behemoths. Corregan opened his mouth to command them to move, and they put guns to his lips. Thyse'ant had been festooned with some insignia, a pentagonal patch with several indecipherable characters scrawled on it. The guards blockading the Experiment's door brandished the same insignia on their massive forearms as they forced the ambassador toward the exit. Burned by the rebuff, Corregan had stormed back toward Rhys'la's sweltering office, but stopped short of the metal plate as he realized the likely futility of unleashing the rant his mind was preparing. He spent four hours pacing the capitol's hallways, constructing and destroying plans on how to reach his client. Jumba had found him sprawled out on the floor, his limbs limp from exhaustion, and had scooped up the ambassador and escorted him to the residential section.

Corregan rubbed his eyes as bright white light flooded through his pupils. In phosphenes, wide dark eyes stared back. " _Can_ they kill him, Jumba?" Corregan asked, tone softened by tiredness and timidity. As he blinked away the phantoms, he spotted four yellowed eyes putting on a caricature of composure, trying to bury the glimmer that had caught Corregan's attention on the ship.

"Oh yes, though it would be very difficult. Lot of time, energy—his crime has always been mere existence, and for Federation, ideal punishment would be total elimination. But, it was just much simpler and less costly to exile him first time. However, if Federation were properly motivated…he is not immortal, despite my best attempts at building him so."

"Ah."

"Are you surprised by this, Ambassador?"

"Eh, no, I guess not…but it's just that, you seem so, _calm_ about it."

Four furiously blinking yellowed eyes tattled. "Be believing me when I say I am not calm, Ambassador. Six-Two-Six, he is special to me. I do not want to see him hurt, especially at hands of these…" Jumba's breath spiraled out. As he caught his second wind, mauve arms went to work hoisting the cargo pants that had surreptitiously slid down. "But, I am having confidence in your abilities to help him. Trust does not come easily to evil scientists, mind you. Yet, I have feeling, Ambassador, that it would be well-invested in you."

Corregan smirked at the compliment, and nodded his appreciation even as the infant tendrils of a migraine were tickling the base of his skull. Jumba accidentally slamming the silver case's rear into an unsuspecting corner exacerbated that tickling. Corregan winced, then asked, "Jumba, been meaning to say something about it…what's in that?"

"Ah yes, it is…ehm, insurance policy."

Corregan raised an eyebrow. "Insurance policy?"

"Um, yes. Remember when I said Federation would not mess with me? Well, this is to help ensure that stays reality," he said while patting one of the case's beveled edges.

"I see…" Corregan mumbled, unsure how much further to press the issue. Luckily, he found a reprieve with the ornate hemispherical desk up ahead, made of a rich and deep brown wood that devoured the lamplight. When they neared it, Jumba salivated.

"Ah, _that_ , Ambassador, is finest Turan chalkwood." Yellowed eyes regained their Southern Florida shine. "I once looked to build chalkwood desk for my lab. Although, if I _had_ done it, then I probably would have gone bankrupt by time I reached, oh, Experiment Zero-Seven-Eight."

Another fulmination of white from the lamps had Corregan rubbing his blue eyes, which were fighting to maintain their luster. Painful tendrils crawled up the back of his head. "Hmm…then maybe you should've saved yourself the trouble and bought the desk, Jumba."

Jumba laughed. "No, Ambassador. I am enjoying Experiments far too much to give them up for stupid desk. Desk is thing, and Experiments, well…they are much more…special." He pointed at the ambassador, whose fingers were busy massaging out the imminent migraine. "Besides, I like it when they give me headache. Means I _care_ , yes?"

Jumba continued laughing as they conversed with a receptionist, an ursine creature who had popped up from somewhere behind the desk. She located their complimentary reservations and directed them to the middle of the hall. Corregan poked his head around the corner and failed to find the end of the residential section. He nursed his temples as the rest of his body protested the long slog remaining.

The duo trundled down the patina-coated copper hallway, counting the doors they passed. After several hundred steps, Corregan's flesh was giving in to his spirit's will, and after several dozen more, even the tendrils of his headache had shriveled. They were in the upper fifties of doors when they spoke again. "Jumba," said a rejuvenated Corregan, "would you consider your Experiments a failure?"

"Failure? How so?"

"They were supposed to be weapons. You were to use them to conquer the galaxy. Instill fear in the masses, and whatnot. And, frankly, they did the exact opposite. Does a bit of that bother you?"

Jumba stroked his chin. "Hmm…perhaps a bit, yes." He snapped meaty fingers and giggled, four eyes misted in memory. "Ambassador, ever since I was young evil acolyte, I have always held grand plans for taking over galaxy. Was my clearest, most energizing dream. My Experiments were to be ones to do it, to make dream reality." He cleared his throat. "But, though dream now evades Jumba, I really cannot complain. I have found happy home, and all of them seem to be happy together. I still dream of toppling Federation, of course, but it will now have to be much slower process."

Corregan chuckled. "You talk of them like they're your children."

"Closest I have ever come. Wife never wanted to raise children. She never wanted much of anything from me, truth be told. So I found, eh, solace in my tinkering. In drawing up plots for galactic domination. My Experiments, they arose from particularly good plot. Their purposes resonated more with Jumba's goals than anyone else in galaxy could ever do. Is _especially_ true with Six-Two-Six. When he took form…gah, _greatest_ _creation_ does not even begin! He was perfect. He became…extension of myself."

"Sounds like a kid to me."

Jumba guffawed. It rocketed through the abyss of the hallway. The echo reverberated several times as he continued, "Maybe you are right, Ambassador. You have children, yes?"

Corregan nodded. "Just one boy."

"So I can be asking, then, if you feel same way. Is he extension of yourself?"

Corregan smiled. "I guess _I_ wouldn't put it exactly that way, but, yes, he is."

"What is his name?"

"Jack. He's getting ready to head to college."

"Ah college, glorious twelve years, to be sure…at least it was on my planet."

Corregan snorted. " _Twelve_ years? Damn, Jumba, if he takes that long, we'll need to steal that receptionist's desk."

"Hah! Splendid plan, Ambassador. But while I am fan of furniture thievery, you do not need to worry. I am evil _doctor_ , not simply evil graduate. Such evil science takes time."

"Twelve years' worth, apparently."

"Pah, Jumba could've been done in eight, but, eh, why rush?" he posited while brandishing a carefree shrug. "So what will, eh, _Jack_ , do with fancy college education?"

Corregan hummed for a door length. "I'm not sure he knows, Jumba. He's smart—much smarter than I am. Well-rounded, good-mannered…a couple very strong institutions are taking a good look at him. He won't apply for a couple of months, but…I dunno, we'll see."

"What do you want him to be?"

They passed the seventieth door while Corregan mulled Jumba's question. He saw his son— "you at seventeen" Corregan's high-school sweetheart wife told him. Messy auburn hair that Corregan would tousle every evening, to Jack's great displeasure. Intelligent and piercing blue eyes that were always moving across a page, reading voraciously—though he also was unafraid of speaking, which he did eloquently. With all that and his slim yet fit build, he attracted several admirers, all of whom had already selected different sets of universities at which to launch a flurry of applications as they entered senior year. _But how things will change in a year_ , Corregan thought. He looked to Jumba. "Happy. I want him to be happy."

"Then I think he will be fine, Ambassador." Jumba wore a wide grin for another few doors. "You know, my Experiments use certain word to describe their group. They call themselves _ʻohana_. Is from local language. Means _family_. Powerful bonding tool...for most of them, at least. There are few holdouts, to be sure, but for just about six hundred and twenty six of them, _ʻohana_ is everything. They would do whatever is necessary to make sure that others—that _family_ —are cared for, are happy."

"And they worry about each other?"

Jumba's four yellowed eyes glimmered again. "Indeed, they most certainly worry. They do not know what is happening to Six-Two-Six—little girl was forced to be keeping his call home secret, which greatly upset her—but I am sure his absence has become noticeable by now. And with Federation monitoring communication, I cannot be telling them what he faces. So they will be worrying. Is heartbreaking...and yet, is inspiring, Jumba must admit, for they will be supporting each other through their worrying. Such love in this, this _ʻohana..._ has become acceptable substitute for conquering galaxy."

" _ʻOhana_ ," Corregan rolled it around. He savored the sound of it in the open hallway, free from muddling bouts of gray anxiety. His mind tumbled with it, too, out of the endless hallway. Back to the couch at home, where his son would most likely be seated, wondering where his dad had disappeared to. _ʻOhana means family_. Corregan smirked and contemplated how he would tell Jack all about _ʻohana_ before a sudden realization surfaced. He tried to count the door they had just passed, and drew a blank. _I've lost track!_

"Ah, here we are, finally!" Jumba shouted. Corregan breathed relief that one of them had paid attention. A wave of his hand, and the door gave way to a posh suite. Soft amber light radiated from strips that ran along the ivory cornices of the walls. Decadent furniture and amenities were delicately arranged around the perimeter. Jumba plopped down on a massive bed set flush against the wall, and the tan expanse rippled delightedly. "Diplomacy is grand!"

"Careful, Jumba," Corregan warned as he laid his jacket atop one of the luxurious chairs hiding in a corner, and then nestled into the seat. "We can't get too…comfortable…mmm." The leather-like material molded around his tired frame, leeching the acid from his muscles. "We have a…lot of work…to do."

"Pah, is…tomorrow's problem. We worry…about that…." And Jumba started snoring. A steady bass, one that hammered away mercilessly at any nearby aural canals. Corregan would have clamped his ears to stave off the noisy assault, but the plush chair had absorbed his arms. The headrest, composed of some indescribably soft substance, cradled his mind as it wandered dreamily.

The hard chair in the dark cell screeched as Corregan shuffled it around in a sad attempt to regain the plushness. The cold from the floor below permeated his oxfords. Motes of dust clung to the lapel of his jacket. A grumble wafted up, and Corregan saw the creature laying at his feet. Six limbs flopped under the dim bulb, motes of mischief glinting in its wide dark eyes.

"Treason is serious, Stitch, no matter what planet we're on. We'll need to address this as soon as possible."

" _Smish_."

The folder lay open in his lap. Stitch's photograph had him brandishing a goofy smile. The creature sat tight-lipped as Corregan closed the folder and sighed. "Y'know, Stitch…how are you really doing?"

Dark eyes shimmered. His head dropped to the floor. Sharp claws picked at one another. The fabric of the orange jumpsuit undulated as his muscles contracted. Antennae waggled as he shook his head, which dislodged a previously matted-down tuft of fur between pinned ears.

"Yeah, I can imagine—no, I really can't. I have absolutely no idea whatsoever, what it's like to be accused a galactic crime, locked up on another planet, with a bunch of aliens from God-knows-where…." Corregan ran his fingers through his coiffed hair. His eyes wandered around the cell. "Barely a day ago was I sitting at home, getting ready to catch up on a baseball game. It was muggy outside—Northern Virginia in late summer, y'know—and I was damned ecstatic to be out of the sun. And I was happy to be there with my kid. On my leather couch, with my son. He's telling me how to mess around with the settings on our brand new TV during the commercials between innings, and I'm just…praying that I wouldn't have to go into D.C. to fix some banal problem. Hmph, _banality_ , what I wouldn't give for some now."

Pressure on his knee. A blue paw rested. Corregan's eyes ran along the arm and up to the creature, who was baring rows of enamel daggers in a goofy smile. Corregan let the laugh flow freely. The creature's bulbous nose twitched and his ears flopped. " _Oketaka_ ," Stitch soothed. "Stitch be okay. _Yuuga_ be okay, too."

Corregan inhaled a few deep calming breaths, tasting a sweetness swirling within the fetid air. "I wonder, Stitch, why they're so afraid of you. Jumba wouldn't tell, and I can't puzzle it out. You seem…" he gestured at the paw, "okay to me."

The smile wavered. "Old Stitch bad. Stitch now _isa_ good. They not see it." One of the other five hands tapped his temple. "Need to teach them." He pointed to his dark eyes. "Show them."

"I thought you did that already. Don't they believe that you've changed?"

" _Ih_ , some. Not everyone. Others need to see what _ʻohana_ did for _meega_." Dark eyes shimmered. " _ʻOhana_ …miss them… _choota!_ " An angry squeak. The paw on Corregan's knee flew up in a rage. "Need to show them! Stitch _good_!" A latent fury tossed the creature around the cell. He flitted in and out of the light circle, with Corregan barely able to track the blue popping in pallid white and melting in soupy black. "Need…need Lilo! Angel! _Boojiboo_!" Six hands hammered the metal ground of the prison, which pinged unsatisfactorily. "Need them! Need _ʻohana_!"

Corregan plowed through the shock and pleaded with the irate creature. "I know, I know, Stitch. We'll—I'll get you out of here. I promise, I'll get you _home_."

Ragged breaths and growls emanated from the floor. The creature's energy explosively expelled, his limbs went slack and he collapsed. Dark eyes drained onto his cheeks. They sat in the tiny cell, the fetid air—thick and quiet—clinging to them. Corregan waited.

Finally, with pained effort, Stitch raised his head. Lachrymose vestiges stained the sapphire fur. " _Oketaka_." After a few sniffles, Stitch resurrected his goofy smile, though meeker than before. He pushed off the ground and, standing on two legs, extended a paw. " _Oketaka_."

Corregan took the little hand. A warmth surged through the paw and into his palm, trickling through his fingers. He returned the goofy smile. Their grins shone in the pale circle of light.

Pressure on his shoulder. Corregan whipped around to find the President's assured grip. "Remember, Martin. You can handle this. I picked you for a reason. You're humanity's best hope. It's our time, Martin. It's humanity's time." Corregan strained through his own confused mutterings to try to sift out a response.

Before he could unearth one, he heard the clatter of oxfords on the cold ground. Corregan shut his mouth and watched as Senior emerged from the darkness. Mahogany oxfords stopped, the barely visible tips butting up against the edge of the light circle. Bathed in shadow, he never blinked, never looked down, never acknowledged Corregan—the gaze went on through the cell door into infinity.

"Senior?" Corregan asked. Senior continued not looking. Stitch continued smiling. The President continued blatting on.

"Senior!" Corregan shouted. Stolid eyes stared ahead. The paw firmed. The hand eased. Corregan began to shake.

"Dad!"

The eyes flew to him. In them, he saw himself.

Corregan awoke, still shaking, and dripping with cold sweat. He gasped a few times while gaining his bearings. The soft amber light had dimmed automatically, leaving the posh room in a deep dusk. Jumba's snore still pounded on the walls and Corregan's ears. He peeled his body from the chair and paced along the room's edges, purging his remaining shivers. A machine perched in a recess deployed a glass of cool water on command. The water having agreed with him earlier, Corregan greedily gulped it down.

 _Fresh air will help_. He lifted his navy blue jacket from the back of the chair and stepped out into the hallway. The white lights there had been dimmed as well, but not enough to be comfortable as he emerged from the dusk. Once his eyes grudgingly adjusted, he did his best to memorize his location among identical doors, and then he retraced his steps out to the lobby.

The receptionist was lounging in a chair similar to the one in his room. She made a move to get up, but Corregan waved her off. He tried to enjoy some of the agreeable fragrances that floated by as he exited the residential area. The main transit conduit was nearly empty, with a few stragglers wandering toward either home or the entertainment level of the capitol, to which Corregan had been briefly introduced by a disturbingly eager Jumba en route to their suite. Ahead, a square window, twice Corregan's height and four times as long, opened a portal to the world of Turo. More alert, Corregan strolled over, artfully dodging a few random Turan citizens who had passed out in creative positions.

 _From orbit is one thing, but this._ He ogled the expanse of city beneath, next to, and above him. The sprawling metropolis— _what D.C. wished it could be_ —thrummed with life. The dead of night did not dissuade the gaggles of aliens, all of differing shapes, sizes, and colors, filing through alleyways and sidewalks, flowing through the arteries of the city. He pressed his palm against the cold and clear material, yearning for the dingy air and clogged streets outside. "Better out there than in here," he whispered to the window.

 _At least I have a view_ , his mind rebutted. The creature appeared, huddled under a pale circle of light, shivering, alone. Corregan contemplated the various plans he had conjured in order to sneak into the prison wing. _Maybe those are the guards_ , Corregan hoped as a squad of uniformed officers swayed and stumbled out of one of the capitol's doors far below. He ignored the murmur disturbing the air further down the conduit, and instead dove into Turo's violescent sky.

He paddled through the deepness, past alien constellations. The city bustled below. _I'm inadequate_ , came a voice from the recesses of his mind. Violescent sky inundated him. His gut turned over. _He deserves better_. He smacked the window. _He deserves better than all of them._ Dark eyes cut through the floors, the glass, the metal, the sky, the anger, to find the swimmer drowning. _I don't know how to help you, Stitch._

Corregan planted his feet on brushed metal ground and shuddered, shaking off droplets of the cold sky, before he left the window behind. When he passed the entryway into the residential section, the receptionist was already on her feet. She lithely intercepted the weary Corregan and handed him a chunky envelope. "Message for you!" she jauntily reported before slipping back behind the rich Turan chalkwood desk.

Perplexed, Corregan tore into the sealed note, which let loose a tickertape parade of shreds along with two comparatively gigantic scraps of paper. When the first tumbled out, Corregan scrambled, liberating it from the mess and then unfurling a surprisingly well-scribbled map. The second bit, cupped in his palm, had a message, written in block letters and, thankfully, in a language he could comprehend. "Follow the map. Meet me there at dawn. Come alone," he murmured, not thinking of potential eavesdroppers. Realizing his mistake, he admonished his weary self before he scanned the room and, seeing no one, destroyed the note. On the map, Corregan discovered a scarlet dot which denoted a small room somewhere in the bowels of the capitol. With the size of the building and his inexperience, he figured it would take him a good long while to find it.

He went to the receptionist and asked, "How soon will the sun rise?"

She hummed while she thought, and crinkled her wet nose during what turned out to be quite the laborious process. "Should be pretty soon, I think." A cute and equally unhelpful shrug later, she was back in her chair.

Corregan peered down the incredibly long hallway and considered returning to his room first. The manila folder, filled with critical information, reposed on the chair cushion. Behind him, thousands of city lights beckoned him to dive through the faraway portal and back into violescent sky. With a somnolent sigh, he turned from the desk and exited the residential area, trying not to get lost on his way toward the scarlet dot.

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Coming 10 June - _Six_

 ** _A/N: This was the longest chapter so far, but it was fun to write it._** ** _I hope you found it worthwhile and enjoyable! As always, feedback is appreciated._**


	6. Six - 54 Hours In

_Six_

 _54 Hours In_

He had gotten lost several times. _Glad I didn't go back_ , Corregan thought of the folder as he ascended the last step, legs burning from excessive backtracking through empty corridors and out of dead ends _._ At the top of the staircase, Corregan brought up a hand to block the light pouring in through a long window at the other end of the tiny room perched atop the capitol's tapering spire. Through slatted fingers, Corregan saw that the sun had barely crested the jagged urban horizon, and amber beams were slaloming through the air between skyscrapers, only to spill haphazardly over a dingy gray floor. _Not quite the bowels…_ he berated his misreading of the map, his mind chalking it up to horrendous exhaustion. He squinted into the light of daybreak, questioning why there should be such a high and bright view for such a clandestine meeting.

A creature, elegant and slender, stood still by the window. Azure skin wrinkled as she turned. Eyes of hardened obsidian, with inclusions of cerulean irises, studied the ambassador with a seasoned starlet's sangfroid. A primly maintained black uniform splayed into headgear—a regal set of horns— at the neckline. The outfit creased as she initiated a sleek and graceful bow. A three-fingered hand on a gracile arm extended to greet him.

Corregan let out his bated breath as he took her palm and shook. "I was told you'd be unavailable for these proceedings, Grand Councilwoman."

"I am," she opened in a commanding contralto, ringing with a peal of ennui. "I'm not meeting you in any official capacity. In fact, only a select few even know I'm here."

"Hmm, toeing the line of _ex parte_ …I like your style, ma'am."

She chuckled and invited him to stand with her at the window. Corregan was treated to the city at daybreak. The energy of the evening had never died, only intensifying with new light. Some ships buzzed past the building, shooting up through the murky atmosphere into the waiting galaxy. Corregan beamed with wide-eyed wonderment.

She laughed again, a warm harmony that embraced Corregan's tired body. "I've seen that look before."

Corregan jumped from the skyline and landed atop obsidian orbs. "I can imagine so."

"Indeed. Your father wore that same look many years ago. How is he?"

"My fath—uh, I, I can't really say."

"Ah, I see."

Wonderment took its time wearing off. When it did, "Wait, you know my father?"

"Yes. He was one of the first humans I met when I began making regular visits to Earth. A group of them would greet me, usually in some ridiculous, secluded location, under your own stars. Made them all feel comfortable, I suppose. Most of them tried, commendably, to hide…a hatred, perhaps born from fear or ignorance. Something readily embraced by the many armed guards who thought themselves clever by ducking behind the ferns or trees. Regardless, it never bothered me—such hatred is not unique to your species.

"But I do remember, he was not like most of them. Such wonderment, so heartwarming and thrilling. Especially so when I discovered that your father excelled in galactic law. Always had a few points of revision to offer me; he couldn't help it. And…judging by your reaction, I take it he never shared this with you. Cannot say I am surprised—your species is also eminently secretive about the universe around you."

Corregan's jaw dropped. Senior emerged from the light, gazing into infinity. "So he knew about all of this?"

"He did, Ambassador. He's never visited Turo, naturally. But we often discussed it. He always expressed such youthful joy when I told him of the resplendence of this planet. Not in words, but his eyes, they would shine a certain way, like how they would under those stars. Only he was lost in his own thoughts…his own stars." A wistful smile curled up the corners of her mouth.

Corregan narrowed his eyes. "So, you two were, close?"

She tittered softly. "You humans have a word for it… _platonic_ , I think is what he told me. He had a prodigious mind, Ambassador. One of the only humans who could and would grasp the concept of a galaxy teeming with life. I respected him and his thoughts greatly." Her cerulean irises passed over Corregan slowly, weightily. "It must have been such a burden for him."

"Yeah. It's a pretty sizable secret to keep from the world, ma'am."

"Oh, I meant keeping it from you. He mentioned you a great deal."

"Me?"

"You were so young then. And he was so proud of Junior. I may still have a couple of the images of you laying around. When he gifted them to me that last time…I could see it, how it crushed him to return home after learning of the splendor of the universe, to fall from the stars. When my collaboration with Earth required a hiatus, no one was more devastated than your father. I always meant to return—and I did, but it was many years later. By then, it had been so long, that I…."

"Yeah."

"...I apologize, Ambassador. It was just, seeing you, he's standing here again. You two look so similar." She cupped her hand over her mouth. Azure eyelids sealed away cerulean irises for a few moments. Corregan was grateful for the quiet solitude. When she returned, she sounded the potent dignitary. "However, I did not contact you solely for my personal reminiscence," she asserted while straightening her jet-black formal dress.

"Fair enough, ma'am. Why am I here?"

"Well, firstly, I'm sorry for not being present earlier. It's been a…busy time here on Turo these past few months. But I wanted to get your take on this business with Six-Two-Six. How do you feel about it?"

Corregan furrowed his brow. "Feel about it? Well, ma'am, truthfully…I have no idea what to think. He's going to trial, and his best—or at least, only—representative has barely begun to understand galactic law—"

"You said _he_ ," she muttered gently, but with enough pressure to derail Corregan.

"I…I did. Is that, bad?"

"No, no it's…refreshing." The obsidian orbs cracked just long enough for Corregan to notice before she blinked and sealed the fissures. "But yes, anyway, do not fret over galactic law. You come from a fantastic line of legal thinking. Our laws are indeed _legion_ —but their mostly absolute nature requires far less interpretation than what I imagine Earth laws would need."

"Hmph, mostly absolute…I suppose so. Yet, even so, I have the feeling that I'm irrelevant. That no matter what I do to try and defend him, it won't help."

"Oh, it won't, Ambassador. You are quite right."

"I-I…" Corregan stuttered into silence, caught unawares by her shocking honesty. His head drooped. Blue eyes welled. "What can I do? How can I help? I don't…." A tap under his chin. He raised his head to catch azure fingers retracting to produce a small red disk. "What's that?"

"Help."

He tiptoed backward, leering through hazy eyes at the smoothed ruby pebble. "What kind of help?"

She sighed and twirled the disk between her fingers. "This galaxy is troubled, Ambassador. More so than I can explain now. Suffice it to say, I am looking to foment much-needed change. This here, I believe, will do just that. I first thought it was pity for your species that led me to give it to you, but, thinking of your father, and the respect I have for him…" she trailed off.

Corregan approached the Grand Councilwoman again and studied her eyes' cerulean inclusions. Past the irises, deep within, he found his father's look. Distant, far-off, lost in his own stars. _I'm sorry, Senior_. Corregan stuck out his palm.

The small red disk buzzed to life when she deposited it in Corregan's waiting hand. The front was a video screen, which illuminated his skin with an eerie green glow. Several series of indecipherable glyphs flashed by— Corregan squinted, trying to catch a few, but ultimately had to close his eyes and relent.

She fumbled through a hasty apology. "Here, let me," she said as she took back the disk and fiddled with the screen and a few bumps along its circumference. "There we go, try this instead." Images streamed by. He gasped. Burning legs finally demanded their reprieve. She moved lithely in the tiny room, her gracile arm gathering a melting ambassador with precision. She sat with the puddle on the floor for several minutes of stunned silence.

"Why?" Corregan finally mustered.

"Because of him, Ambassador. When he was quiet, and relegated to the far corner of the galaxy, he was tolerable. As we pushed him to be more active—as he closed in on a real case for galactic citizenship—he became intolerable."

"Who decides what's tolerable?" Corregan was angry. He shot to his feet, ignoring his muscles' protests. "Who decides _this_ is the proper reaction!"

"I understand, Ambassador," she cooed while rising gracefully. "That's why I've delayed action against Six-Two-Six for as long as I could. Our laws, as absolute as they are, mean nothing without compassion. He deserves a chance to be more than genes and programming. As do they all. He could be an inspiration to the many more whom I believe are out there. And that scares a good number of people. People who prefer our system as it is."

"Well, what about you? Don't you have a stake in this system?"

She exhaled. A layer of tedium sloughed off with her breath. "More than you know. But I cannot bear this galaxy as it is anymore. Something must change. This galaxy, my Federation, all must be cleansed, Ambassador. I cannot do it myself—I am too caked in the old dirt and grime. You, however, can bring about change. Fresh, new perspectives can change our galaxy. You can do it with this."

Corregan walked a tight circle as he fumbled with the disk. "But, how can I use this…information?"

"The operation detailed is extralegal. There is no Federation mandate for it. The plan as enumerated on the disk can be considered a treasonous act under our laws. And remember whose name isn't redacted from these files." She teasingly pointed a finger at the screen. "Hearing about your time so far on Turo, I thought you might savor that bit."

Corregan did smirk, but quickly buried it beneath a diplomatic grimace. "And by revealing this to the Federation, can I guarantee the safety of Earth?"

"Yes. I can assure you the Federation will never sanction a military action of this magnitude against your species. You will potentially save a great many lives. And," her voice grew wilier, "you will have solidified Earth's place in this galaxy. Imagine the fanfare of a human uncovering this travesty. Proof that you're evolved enough to participate in galactic affairs. Social, economic, political…you'll gain your people's admittance to a higher existence. You'll make Earth a _partner_ in the Federation. You'll show your value, and humanity will prosper."

Corregan turned back to the window and rested his palms against the chilled glass as a galactic partnership unfolded in his mind. The President and he stood before a series of flashy red starships, all pointed toward Turo, ready to be loaded with treasures of incalculable value. People from various nations joined on a nearby set of bleachers, anxiously awaiting liftoff. People from all sorts of backgrounds, nationalities, beliefs. _A people united_ , he could hear himself speak to the President, whose grin never dimmed. As engines ignited, they brightened a shadow, a little figure with long ears and six limbs. Corregan squinted, but the plume of smoke and steam washed away the image. By the time the fog cleared, the rockets were afternoon stars, and the figure was gone.

Corregan faced the Grand Councilwoman. "What about the Experiment? What about Six-Two-Six?"

Her wily expression faded. Another deep sigh, azure skin wrinkling around the corners of her mouth. "I'm afraid his fate is out of your hands. I cannot stop the process. He will be tried and likely convicted."

Corregan scrunched his face. "No, that makes no sense…surely they'll wait. Until this operation's backers are interrogated. And then Stitch's investigation will be reexamined, right?"

She slowly shook her head. "The investigation, however brief and desultory, was conducted by a separate body. They'll take a few extra Turan days—I would guess ten at most—to deal with the operation's disclosure and any imminent political and social blowback. Some bombastic speeches here and there, and then the media cycle will be distracted by something else…until articles of treason against the perpetrators are formally drafted— _that's_ when everything interesting begins. Change will happen…but it will come too late for Six-Two-Six. He will merely lose the fight for his life a little later than planned."

"And the rest of his family?"

"The other Experiments? I cannot say. They may escape judgment. They may not."

The red disk teetered on Corregan's fingertips. His tongue was tangled in thorny disbelief. "You said this would help!" he managed through the thicket.

"Help you. And help humanity. When I said nothing you do for Six-Two-Six will matter, I meant it. Even if, by some miracle, you exonerate him, he will never be safe. And he will _always_ be a danger to you, and your species. I know this is…suboptimal. But it's what you have to work with." Corregan listened to her callous voice, but watched her obsidian orbs fracture. In the canthus of her eye, tears pooled and began rolling down her azure skin.

"How can you support this!" Corregan yelled. "You care about Stitch!"

She dammed the tears with the back of a finger. A few shallow breaths, and a resoluteness somehow manifested within a shaky contralto. "Six-Two-Six did not witness this unfold, but when I exiled him to your planet, worlds rioted. You've never seen an entire planet riot, give in to primal fury, to fear. Our own Turo nearly erupted. Even after the fires were extinguished, as the dust settled, all they saw in him was a weapon, an anger unchecked and indefensible. Not everyone believed like I did in what he could become. Many still don't. So blinded by ignorance, by fear, by limits, they hated. Somehow, our Council held the center, reined them back in—but the hatred still burns, Ambassador.

"So yes, I care very much for him. Three of your Earth years, I've deflected that hatred, squirreled it away in the cold corners of our Federation… and I've watched him become something more than a weapon, more than an anger…he is something _good_ in this very bad galaxy." Eyes drying, solidifying, she leaned into Corregan and clamped his shoulders. "But if you fail to use these files to elevate humanity's existence…they will obliterate your world. Even without Six-Two-Six, the other hundreds like him who reside with you pose just as much of a threat as he does. These forces of hatred will turn your planet's surface to glass, and kill your kind indiscriminately, so long as they terminate their targets. I—we, cannot allow that to happen. Not for them." She readjusted her grip from admonishing to anodyne. _The seasoned starlet_. "Understand this well, Ambassador: he will die, no matter what you choose. So it's up to you to mitigate the collateral damage as best you can."

"You...you don't know this for sure…" Corregan half-heartedly mumbled.

"Yes, I do. They may come tomorrow. Or three more Earth years from now. But they will come. And they will kill Six-Two-Six, and his brethren, and whoever else stands in their way. You can prevent the death of your people. You may even prevent the deaths of those Experiments. But his…his is out of your control."

Corregan was stumbling backward, abandoning the horrendous pitch. The Grand Councilwoman danced after, reaching to grab his shoulder, to drag him back onto the stage of a terrible political revue. "No, no, this is… _wrong_ , this is…" he stammered, swiping away at her approaching grasp.

"Please, Ambassador. You cannot save him. But you can make his death _mean_ something. He can do the good he has always desired."

"I…I—I…" he stuttered into the floor. On his rear, face buried in olive-skinned hands. Blue eyes shuttered to the spiteful galaxy. A quiet sniffle as the room dimmed, a heavy cloud having passed in front of the cresting Turan sun. The dulled red disk dangled from his fingertips.

She bent down. She consoled. She reasoned. She begged. "Save your people, Ambassador."

He lifted his head. The hardened obsidian had melted. He looked beyond molten darkness, through cerulean irises, and saw the stars. He blinked, and fields conjoined. A wave of violescent sky cascaded over his mind, the tide dragging him outward. Letting go, he floated into the great field. Into his own stars.

#

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 **A/N -** _Another chapter I enjoyed putting together. It's a little bit exciting to think on what will happen next! As always, feedback is appreciated._

Coming 15 June - _Seven_


	7. Seven - 60 Hours In

_Seven_

 _60 Hours In_

The stars had fallen away as Corregan and Jumba waited. The ambassador had roused the doctor from his obnoxious slumber, and dragged him into the insomnia of indecision. Lazy light streaked through a hazy sky as Turo's sun crawled up from its den. Corregan yawned, savoring the dense city air, and stretched his tired arms. They had been sitting on a bench of marbled stone within the colonnade for a Turan hour, the sprawling capitol opening up to their backs, and still they waited.

Corregan lackadaisically ran a hand along the slate gray column behind his head, catching the minute nicks in the cold thick stone. "How long _is_ a day on this planet?" the exasperated ambassador asked.

"Eh, is quite a bit longer than your world's. You get used to it quickly. Or you go mad, heh heh."

"Personal experience on that, Jumba?"

"Pah! _Genius_ , not madness!" Jumba scoffed with gesticulating mauve arms. A meaty hand inadvertently brushed over Corregan's arm. When Corrigan failed to react, Jumba blinked twice and said, "No recoil? You've _learned,_ Ambassador."

"Yeah, I guess so…" Corregan murmured as he wiped at the sleeve of his navy blue jacket. Through the urban fog, he watched aliens scurrying about clogged streets and strange vehicles careening around the corners of skyscraping constructs. _So familiar_ , he yearned as the sun struggled through the jungle of buildings and spires. The amber orb moved behind a tall cubic structure, which barred the sparse light from reaching the colonnade. A soupy darkness started to encroach on the marbled bench.

"What is wrong, Ambassador? I would have thought you to be cheerier."

While Jumba spoke, the ambassador twirled the red disk between his fingers, but clumsier than his benefactor had demonstrated. Grumbling unease festered in his gut. He pawed at the screen, watching the characters jump by. _Help_ , his mind mocked as the disk dulled in the graying light.

"Jumba, am I making a mistake?"

"I do not know, Ambassador. I am here merely for, eh, moral support. And, of course, for insurance policy," Jumba tapped the handle of the silver case, which was stashed in the narrow gap between bench and column. "You will do what is best, and we will work from there."

"Moral support…" Corregan trailed off.

Jumba nodded emphatically. "And how am I doing?"

"Platitudes aside, not too bad."

"Hah!" Jumba clapped his meaty mauve hands together. "Not too bad. Precisely what I was aiming for."

"Right…" Corregan ran his thumb along the disk's face. He flexed his bicep, which had been alleviated from the burden of carting around the manila folder that still rested on the chair cushion in the corner of their room. Its reams of pages would be sticking out at a hundred different angles after Corregan had torn through it, gathering what little information he could. He had slipped from the stack the authorization form, with the Experiment's paw print clearly stamped, and folded it to fit neatly into his jacket's inner pocket. His free hand pressed against it as an ashen pallor overtook the colonnade.

"Stitch is counting on me."

"He is."

The cubic structure had swallowed the sliver of sun. The lengthy sable shadows of the columns disappeared as the area fell into a strange twilight. Corregan rubbed his chin and sighed. "And so is my world."

"It is."

In darkness, Corregan sat on the marbled bench and mulled. Jumba stayed silent for a while, consigning himself to scraping at an especially large nick in the column supporting his back. The ambassador gazed at the ground, the same slate gray as the columns. The paw warmed his palm. The hand grasped his shoulder. The eyes stared, through him and into infinity. He shuddered. _I'm sorry, Senior._

A clatter from far away. Corregan roused. At the periphery of his vision, a tiny but deep shadow set against a dirty gray backdrop hovered near the colonnade's ingress. Corregan shoved Jumba, who gave a harrumph of displeasure. "What're you—" he shouted before Corregan shushed him. The ambassador pointed two fingers toward the entrance. "Ach, time to be cashing in policy," Jumba said as he rose from the bench, snatched up the silver case, and trundled out between two columns, headed for the tall cubic structure that blocked the rising sun.

The shadow shifted toward Corregan, who gulped and hid the disk in his jacket's inner pocket, slipping the red device in between the folded page. As the figure enlarged, Corregan dusted off his lapels, which were coated in a thin film of urban dinginess, and smirked as the back of his hand came away dirty. He nervously rolled his sooty knuckles for the several minutes it took for the form to reach his marbled bench.

"Ambassador," thundered a deep and bellicose voice from a gray beak. In the dull air, the feathers did not shimmer, settling instead on smatterings of emerald and ruby and sapphire. His infamously sharp talons drew tight and furious circles in the air as he stood.

"Chief-Elect, please, sit." The ambassador gestured toward the vacated seat. With a grunt, Thyse'ant obliged. Corregan scooted over to make room for the Chief-Elect's massive frame and pavonine tail, which fanned out through the columns' interstices. The two stewed in silence for half a minute.

Corregan finally cleared his throat and welcomed Thyse'ant. "I appreciate you taking the time, Chief-Elect."

"I did not have much of a choice, _Ambassador_ ," he jabbed, letting the malice linger on Corregan's title.

"I suppose you'd like to get right to it then, yes?"

"Naturally. I would not deign to speak with you otherwise." Crimson irises smoldered. Thyse'ant's eyes scanned the empty colonnade, and his beak made a soft clicking sound as he went.

"We are alone, if that's what you're concerned about."

"Hmph, alone enough, I suppose. Though I see you've left the Doctor on overwatch." Talons circled the cubic structure. The rotund frame, though pressed against the roof, still eclipsed the sliver of light that was emerging over the edifice. "Clever, human."

"In case you renege."

"If I renege? Hmph, were I Rhys'la…with me, I highly doubt that will be the case. You, however…." He swiveled his formidable frame toward the ambassador. "I wonder about you and your… _resolve_."

" _My_ resolve is firm," Corregan wasted no time in replying. Thyse'ant blinked. Corregan tugged at his cuffs, golden buttons tarnishing rapidly in smog. He sensed the tension building in the jacket's wool fibers.

Thyse'ant huffed and picked at a talon. "To be held in this position by a _human_ …" he hissed. "I remember when she first reported on you. I was a young soldier then, innocent enough to the politicking of Turo. I was not meant to see the report, but these prying eyes of mine…" he chuckled, a hoarse scratching that made Corregan cringe. "What stands out in my mind is how unimpressed I was. By the time the Federation makes planetfall, the beings are usually advanced enough to join our fold. You humans still had some, _evolving_ , to do." He brushed at one of the legs of his slacks. "But maybe your time has come. You certainly are insidious enough for Turo."

"I'm only doing this for—"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure you have your case ready to present. But you will find no court here. Now, where is it?"

Corregan paused, tapping the outside of his jacket. Thyse'ant's crimson irises jumped in time with the finger. The ambassador saw the eager eyes, and a slight smile upturned the corners of his mouth as he extracted the red disk. Thyse'ant sat quietly as Corregan palmed the device and swiped a thumb across the screen. Crimson irises danced with the characters, then collapsed.

"Where—never mind, only one place you could have obtained that. Pretentious bitch," he spat. Corregan locked the disk in a closed fist as Thyse'ant's beak clicked. "And you think this is worth my prisoner's life?"

"A life for a life, Chief-Elect. Fair trade."

A twitch had developed in Thyse'ant's right eyelid. Corregan watched the membrane quiver, though he was careful not to fall into the seething crimson pool housed below. When Thyse'ant spoke, Corregan detected the incredible restraint the chief-elect was imposing on his sharp voice and sharper talons. "Do you understand, Ambassador, what the consequences of this will be?"

"Of course I—"

"No." Talons sheened menacingly in the approaching rays of light. Corregan contained his gasp as Thyse'ant flew across the narrow gap. The gray beak clicked at the tip of Corregan's nose. "You say you know the reason you are doing this. But—do you truly understand what will happen? Do you believe you can buy that creature's safety? That you will walk away from this totally unscathed?"

Corregan bit his cheek, but said nothing. The thundering voice rolled on, "You think this will save some poor soul. You're only delaying the inevitable. Someone will come for Six-Two-Six. Now, it might not be me—but someone will come. And when they do, they will lay waste to your world. Your kind will be erased, as either willing abettors to fugitives from galactic justice, or as simple simians who could not comprehend their place and got in the way."

"You call this justice?"

Thyse'ant snarled. "And what do _you_ know of our ways? You would not even be here to try to argue about justice without our graces. Without him residing on your pathetically backward planet, he who unwittingly elevated your species to the threshold. Do not presume to understand how justice is served here, Ambassador."

Corregan bristled. Crimson irises begged for his dissolution. The ambassador skirted the edges of seething pools while twisting the typhonic fury roiling in his gut into a smug snarl. "You said _he…_."

For the first time since Corregan's arrival, Thyse'ant's eyes showed surprise. Talons tapped the bench, tossing up a tiny cloud of aerosolized rock. The gray beak clacked. "You just now noticed, Ambassador?"

Corregan's snarl retreated into pursed lips. "I…but why?"

"Unlike most of this galaxy, I do not fear him. I see him for what he is—a creature trapped in an unfortunate situation. Perhaps you mistake my earlier enthusiasm for some form of joy. I do not imprison him for my own pleasure. I do it because it is what the galaxy requires."

"Requires?"

Frustration—or maybe exhaustion—mounted in Thyse'ant's now-pedantic tone. "Planets rioted, tore themselves apart, when his existence was made known, when he was shipped to your world—unprotected, to be monitored by an impotent and backward species. Delegates put on airs of joy or pride when he visited Turo, but truly, the Federation found no peace after his exile. Representatives from every sector bickered while his power and influence grew and evolved. After his stint as head of our armed forces went…poorly, he retreated from the public eye—"

"I assume the Hamsterviel Usurpation didn't help things either," Corregan interjected his uneducated guess.

The corners of the gray beak leapt up the side of Thyse'ant's face. _A smile?_ Corregan ventured another uneducated guess. "That's right," Thyse'ant mused, "it did not. You're familiar with recent history, Ambassador. But Hamsterviel and his cloned minions seizing galactic power for the briefest of reigns was only a symptom, not the cause of what ails this galaxy."

"What is that sickness then, Chief-Elect?"

The beak dropped low, somber. "Fear, Ambassador. All of these pieces coming together as they have, they've all left many to be fearful. And angry. Waiting for a reason to riot again. To tear apart planets. To go to war. He is their reason, their spark to ignite their anger and engulf our Federation in a conflagration of fear. So should I remove Six-Two-Six, I stand a chance at keeping this galaxy intact. I do not like it, Ambassador, but I must do it."

 _To go to war over him_ …Corregan thought. Wide dark eyes squinted in the harsh light of his mind. Motes of mischief flared. He shook his head and ran fingers through his coiffed hair, which was losing its usual bounce. "So _this_ is your justice?"

"No, Ambassador. This is how we save billions of lives. When I can secure the lives of the Federation and its people, then justice can prevail. But you…you do not see it that way. You chase after a useless ideal without a foundation,or without forethought, and thus you endanger the rest of us. Are you truly willing to bring war onto others' heads, Ambassador? Or onto your own? I am prepared to do what is necessary, not personally palatable, to preserve our shared galaxy. Can you say the same?"

Corregan stared at his clenched fist. Knuckles whitened as he squeezed the ruby pebble. Shadows, warping in the young light, peeked out from behind the colonnade. From them, the wide dark eyes gazed back at the ambassador. They squinted in the rising sun, delivering their message. _ʻOhana_. Corregan smirked as the motes of mischief guided him back to Thyse'ant's glare. "I can. And I want him freed, Thyse'ant. Now. Once I see him out of that cell and in daylight, you can have this." A crescent of red peeked through the gap in his fist. "But he's coming home with me."

Lengthy sable shadows were now crawling from their dens. The sun rose past the cubic structure, spilling amber across the colonnade. Corregan squinted, in both bright light and burning conviction, and waited. Amber was cascading over the bench and shadows were foraging around Corregan's oxfords by the time Thyse'ant spoke.

"Why?"

Corregan balked. "Um, what do you mean, why?"

"Even after I tell you that your plan is futile, that your actions could bring about war, you pursue it. Why?"

He stammered in his effort to articulate a reason. "I…it's the…he's…." He ran fingers through his coiffed hair. A strand separated and flipped down over his forehead. "It's the right thing to do!" he finally blurted out.

"Hah!" Thyse'ant's full laugh was an onerous sound for the air to carry. "The _right thing_ , how adorable. And how did you arrive at your infantile conclusion of what the _right_ _thing_ is?"

Corregan firmed his posture as his argument went limp. "I don't need to explain it to you! This talk of war, of dooming Stitch…we're here for a transaction—nothing more. And what do you care? Why are you so interested in my thought process?"

"Thought process, hmph, generous. Be assured, I'm not interested," Thyse'ant growled.

"So what, you're trying to talk me out of it?"

"No. Your mind was decided before you sat down on this bench."

 _Was I_? Corregan's mind asked itself. Undaunted, Corregan straightened his jacket and leaned into Thyse'ant's chest, a move he immediately noticed to be non-threatening. He added extra granules of roughness to a gravelly tone. "Then what is it?"

Thyse'ant's poise changed. Corregan watched as the Chief-Elect grew taller and stiffened. The military uniform around his chest puffed out. In the ample amber light, feathers regained their iridescent shimmer. "I want you to know _why_ , human. To do what higher-order beings do and understand their decisions. And the ramifications of those decisions."

Corregan tugged again on his cuff, and felt the strain tighten in the wool fibers. _Do I understand?_ He glanced up, and saw a field of stars forming in the vestiges of a violescent sky.

"You extort me to get your way, but you do not think about _why_. You do it for some nebulous sense of good, the same damned altruism that kept the Experiment free. One that had plenty of unintended consequences…" Thyse'ant paused to run a talon along his beak's hairline fracture. "The Council's choice to leave him on your world violated many _right things_ , Ambassador. Now you claim yours to be so vital, so righteous, yet you will sacrifice the _right thing_ for how many others to achieve your own? No, you do this because you fear doing the true right thing, what _would_ be best for all. You deny yourself the chance to consider _why_ out of fear of what you may find. Your arrant cowardice is insulting, Ambassador."

Thyse'ant relaxed his muscles, and the feathers shimmered in a terrifyingly tantalizing pattern. The field of stars above had migrated onto the quills and veins. The ambassador cocked his head a few degrees as the stars rose to their zeniths along shimmering stems. Iridescent feathers swooped in a rising gust. Crimson irises were setting, fading from the empyrean.

"But," came the thundering voice, "maybe this is all too much to ask from a human. So, very well, Ambassador. Since what you possess could be of significant inconvenience to me—and since you are so keen to bring destruction down upon the heads of you and those on your planetary backwater—I will accept your proposal. Provided, of course, that you acknowledge your cowardice."

The stars dimmed as Corregan glared at the crimson irises. "What?"

"Accept that you do not truly know why you are doing this, and you will have your deal. We can go now to retrieve him. I'll even walk you to your vessel, and once you've departed, I will handle the Council Undersecretary and other tiresome bureaucrats, and bury the articles of treason. Unless there was something else you needed to accomplish during your stay?" A sly grin cracked along the edges of the gray beak. A smug confidence, though tinged with an almost unbearable weariness, emanated from sharp crimson irises.

Corregan shot to his feet. The fist, with a ruby disk planted inside, clenched harder. Knuckles blanched. Blue eyes boiled. Frazzled hair whipped in the wind beginning to sweep through the city.

"Ah, interesting," Thyse'ant praised while clacking talons. "And perhaps I underestimated you. Maybe you _can_ think closer to our level. But oh, that simian brain must be burning! To give up Experiment Six-Two-Six to elevate your world and stave off war, or to save him and let your planet and many others burn. Now, with your overwatch there—who I'm fairly certain is armed with one of his exceptionally high-powered rifles—my risk in forcibly stopping you from leaving is too great. Much as it pains me to admit, you were truly wise to do that. So, I leave the choice to you, human."

Afterburners shining brilliantly, the afternoon stars joined their cousins in the field. The President stood next to him, hand firmly grasping his shoulder, wearing the smile of campaigning season. _Your name will live forever_ , the President decreed. _As will humanity_. Corregan looked down, shuffling his oxfords through the soft zoysia grass, to find a creature. Six limbs lay limply, the sapphire fur incongruous with the undulating verdant blades. Long pink-lined ears were pinned back. Wide dark eyes shimmered in the afternoon sun, motes of mischief floating woozily within. It was mouthing something unheard. Corregan extricated his shoulder from the President's grip and crouched down. Sounds were starting to rattle the air, but he needed to lean in further. Inches away, he met the creature's dark eyes, and found within them his father's gaze. He stared for a long while. They shared the stars. Sounds blended together. A harmony. Corregan heard the word. " _Smish_."

Thyse'ant coughed, and Corregan stood again in the colonnade. The stars swirled above but dimmed with passing seconds. The Turan sun marched on, bathing the bustling city in beautiful amber light. He opened his palm, and the ruby disk gleamed brilliantly. _I wonder how the game ended_ , the ambassador from Earth wondered as he looked up and dove into crimson irises.

"So, _Ambassador_ , what will you do?"

#

* * *

Coming 18 June - _Eight_


	8. Eight - 85 Hours In

_Eight_

 _85 Hours In_

 _What have I done?_

After a rough escort from an alien planet's surface, and a quick hop through majestically infinite space, Earth loomed large in the starship's flickering view screen. _My home_. White clouds streaked over the glassy blue-green marble. Through the screen's awesome magnification, Corregan pinpointed the flurry of activity that coagulated into D.C. He hoped to see his son wander out of the house's front door and hop into the car waiting patiently in the opened garage. _I will keep our home safe._ He drew in his navy blue jacket as a chill slithered up his spine. Air puffed from the lip of his jacket's inner pocket. He heard the shuffling of a heavy-set creature sidling up to the screen.

"I had been hoping to be enjoying that room for a little longer, Ambassador."

Jumba's four eyes were pulled wide open, staring listlessly through the view screen into space. The tacky Aloha shirt had earned plenty more wrinkles. Meaty mauve hands neurotically smoothed out the shirt, but its folds sprung back up immediately.

"Sometimes hope isn't enough, Jumba."

The doctor snorted in displeasure, and headed to his seat on the central dais. Several annoyed beeps and whirs from the surrounding machinery floated to Corregan's ears as Jumba fiddled with nondescript—and nonfunctional—controls. Jumba hammered on his tormentor and cried out for a machine fitting for his caliber of evil genius. _What have I done?_

Stars outside burned steadily, resolute in their places. Corregan ran a finger along the view screen, tracing out pretend constellations. His finger rested for an inordinate amount of time on a distant flicker. It felt cold. His left bicep flexed involuntarily, eager to burden itself once more with the thick manila folder. A folder now resting under the Turan sun. It felt colder.

With shivers suddenly surging up his arms, Corregan left his post at the window and walked halfway up the low steps to the central command dais of the same ship that had brought them to Turo. The same creatures busied themselves on the same consoles in the same ring, all still sneaking furtive glances at the worn duo in the center. To avoid these potential eavesdroppers, Corregan grumbled under softened breath, "Do you really think they would've gotten their three-fourths majority?"

The chair protested as a calmer Jumba eased into it. "Oh yes, Ambassador. It would have been unanimous, I am having no doubt of that."

"Hmm." Corregan shuffled his oxfords with dull thuds.

"...nothing personal, Ambassador. It would not have been your fault—impossible odds."

Corregan scowled. "I suppose...will Thyse'ant still be a problem?"

"Nah, he is all hot air—Internal Security is relegated to Turo only, and chief will be busy position. Not much he can do to us from there. Besides, from what you have told me, I would be betting he was just mad he was outsmarted by human."

"Hmph, outsmarted? You give me far too much credit, Jumba."

"Too much? No, Ambassador, some of us are owing you far more."

The far door hissed open. The duo watched and waited. He entered. Six limbs worked in unison to bring him in front of Corregan. He barely reached the ambassador's thighs, so Corregan knelt once the creature reached the first step. The ambassador just now realized that the creature had shed the orange jumpsuit. Naked sapphire fur bristled and softened in the frigid and sterile bridge. Back spines, dangling limply, emerged from a freed splotch of midnight on his back. He had pinned his long pink-lined ears. Claws were clattering against one another as he stood up waveringly on two legs. Wide dark eyes held a sadness, dimming the motes of mischief floating on their surfaces. "Stitch _soka_."

"It's alright," Corregan recited, more mechanically than he had planned. _Sorry_ , he echoed as he studied the creature. Surprisingly, Thyse'ant had kept his word, and Corregan had been the one to pull back the door, releasing Stitch back into the wild. The first claw had poked through the threshold a little reticently, but as the propitious change of fate dawned on the creature, the other claws waved excitedly through the air. He had worn his goofy smile as the Earth-bound convoy hustled out of the bemused capitol, through angry Turan streets, and off the noxious planet.

The goofy smile had melted into a sloppy frown. "Was Stitch bad?" a meek voice dithered.

Corregan shook his head. "No. You were good." _As for me…_ he chomped on his cheek.

A tide of confusion had pulled on Stitch's face, contorting his dark eyes as he leaned forward for more of Corregan's words. When Corregan reserved them, the tide ebbed. Eyes opened wide, and his ears bounced, infused with a twinge of overdue happiness, as he squeaked, " _Takka_!"

Corregan guessed the meaning. "Sure."

Stitch sat for a minute, eyes dancing over the nascent wrinkles plaguing Corregan's face. Pools of shimmering darkness lapped at Corregan. A familiar look— familiar, yet discomforting. Yet loving. A heartbeat more passed, and as Corregan's shoulders started to release their weight, Stitch whipped around and gleefully bounded up the remaining steps into Jumba's waiting mauve arms. _ʻOhana_. Corregan hid his own goofy smile while wandering over to the dais's silver balustrade, content to let them enjoy a few private cheers together.

He tossed around the fanciful notion of making small-talk with one of the characters in the console ring. Despite his persistence, every single one refused to break from their work. From the periphery, Corregan would catch the dubious glances, the kind of look that would dissipate upon closer inspection. _Distrust is universal_ , he decided after he paced the circumference of the bridge. By the time he returned to the central dais, Jumba and Stitch had separated, yet they were still giddily swapping tidbits in several languages.

"Ah, Ambassador, I was just talking to Six-Two-Six about your own family. He mentioned you had been missing a, eh, baseball game, yes? With your son?"

"Left it at three-all, top of the ninth. Why?"

"Well, we are close enough to Earth now to be grabbing some of their signals. I believe I could be finding that game, if you are interested?"

For a moment, Corregan thought he should. He figured that Jack had finished watching while his dad had been stuck on I-95, desperately avoiding any radio station that would spoil the outcome of yesterday's tied game. _But just maybe…_ Corregan hoped, picturing his son pausing the DVR and pecking at one of his many copies of applications to universities laying on the couch cushion. "Thanks, but I'm gonna hold off for now. There's a couch waiting for me to finish that game." _And a son waiting, too._

Stitch hopped a few times. " _Ih! Smish!_ "

Jumba laughed. "Ah yes, we have our own couch to be getting back to as well."

" _Morcheeba!_ Movie time!" Stitch began vigorously reenacting a scene from a film Corregan did not recognize. As the creature marched around—arms flailing and mouth snarling—and crushed an imaginary city beneath his clawed toes, an odd delight welled in the ambassador's core. Jumba played along for a few takes before leaving Stitch and pulling Corregan aside. They whispered underneath the growls of Stitch in his role and the leers of the other creatures in theirs.

"Ambassador, I was just wanting to say…ehm, _thank you_. You have done wonderful thing, and I am…grateful. Ehm…" Jumba grew bashful and rubbed the back of his head. "Believe me when I say it is difficult for evil genius to say this, heh."

"Right, I can only imagine, Jumba. But don't worry about it. You and he have a real place on Earth now. You're both… _ʻohana_."

"Hah! Will be new favorite word, _trust_ me." He slapped Corregan's back, sending the wind sailing from the ambassador's lungs. Jumba rambled a quick and rather insincere apology, then after Corregan issued a small cough, Jumba dropped his voice lower. "Still, I fear for him, Ambassador. He is smart, strong, cunning, but…I do not think he truly realizes what he faces. While Thyse'ant problem is hopefully resolved, there are still be many who will be wanting his head on silver platter. Trapping him in cell for trumped-up charges is one thing. But if they are wanting to, they can execute plan—and him—whenever they choose. Suppose it is, eh, true irony, yes? Now that creature meant for destruction has learned peace, peaceful Federation seeks only to destroy him. Hmm, still, I doubt many in Federation delegation will be seeing it that way."

Corregan thumbed the lip of his jacket's inner pocket. A slip of paper nearly sliced the olive skin. "Well, we may have left that Rhys'la character pissed off, and the delegation definitely so…but, irony aside, all we can do is cross that bridge if we get to it, Jumba. For now, enjoy your time with him." _It's fleeting_ , Corregan was about to finish before a dull chime resounded from the titanium joists above. The party scrambled to the view screen. Wisps of nitrogen whipped at the ship's outer shield, casting violescent beams over their vessel as it descended through the thermosphere. At the view screen's lower edge, the soft lumps of cumuli were taking flight from a thunderhead which surged toward the Florida coastline.

"Ach, it is time to be strapping in, gentlemen!" Jumba turned, readying to jestingly race Stitch to their seats. He paused, and seized the ambassador's arm. "Oh, one more thing," he whispered. "I will be crafting excuse to be telling his cousins—so long as little girl has not been beating me to it. Whatever I am telling them will be mostly true, but will be leaving out certain parts. Including parts I do not want Six-Two-Six to know. He knows what he needs to. So please do not be telling him everything. No sense in worrying him more, yes?" Corregan nodded, then watched as Jumba bounded up the steps with surprising agility and wrapped a restraint around his corpulent belly, while Stitch locked into the floor using six sets of claws. Antennae wobbled as he broke into the goofy smile, dark eyes asking Corregan to join them. The ambassador dawdled at the view screen, a finger drawing tight circles around a spot that minutes ago was occupied by a faraway star.

Corregan waggled a finger at the beach far below. Stretching far beyond him. The gantries laid dormant, oxidized piles of metal girding left twisting into the sky. The thunderhead rumbled over the beach, bringing forth a gray sheet of rain. Corregan savored the delicate scent, one soured by the wind blowing over the decaying launch site. A left hand took firm hold of his right shoulder. Corregan knew the wrinkles and knuckles, and kept his gaze out over the site. _Your name will live forever, all right,_ the President whispered into his ear.

A paw lay across his knee. Corregan looked down. From atop fluttering zoysia grass, Stitch looked up, the dark eyes absorbing the vestiges of sunlight that streamed through the thunderhead's quickly shriveling gaps. No goofy smile—thin-lipped, somber, his sapphire fur blowing in the stiffening wind. Ears pinned back against the rising gale, he opened his mouth and bared enamel daggers. _Takka_ , Stitch squeaked over the intensifying storm.

Corregan's hand nestled into the patch of fur between Stitch's pink-lined ears. Wide dark eyes shuttered as Corregan scratched. Rivulets of rainwater, carrying flecks of rust, rolled past his oxfords. Corregan took his gaze out over the impending downpour and up to a hole in the cloud. Through it, stars twinkled. His finger traced pretend constellations as the deluge weighed down the wool jacket. The hand left his shoulder. The paw left his knee. Corregan sensed a presence. He left the field of stars and found Senior.

"How much did you know?" Corregan asked, raising his voice above the deafening patter of fat rain droplets.

"Whatever she told me. Which was plenty," Senior said in a deep bass that rumbled with the thunder.

"Why did you stay quiet? Why did you keep it to yourself?"

"For her."

"Is that it?"

"..." Lightning flashed above the turbulent watery horizon.

"Damn it Senior! What about me?"

Even through the rain, Senior's limpid hazel eyes collected the light of the stars above. "It was always about you, Junior." He moved closer. Corregan shivered. "You couldn't know. It was too great a burden to bear."

"But I needed to know!" Corregan shouted, fists clenched. "You had no right to hide it from me! I could've chosen better, I could've been ready!"

"You were ready. You chose."

"No, I caved, I…I failed us."

"You were brave. You chose."

"No, all those people, our planet…." The droplets fell from Corregan's nose when he hung his head. He muttered, barely above the rain, barely enough to reach his own ears. "Jack must know. He cannot be allowed to make the same mistake."

A hand that had not grasped him for a long time massaged the knot in his neck. He breathed, and a fine mist of droplets sprayed the back of his throat. As he spluttered, a whisper tickled his ear. "You cannot tell him. He cannot bear this burden. Not yet. For now, it is our mantle to don, son."

Corregan raised his head. His solitary tear mixed with the rivulets of water streaming along the nascent wrinkles on his face. "Why, Dad?"

Senior's eyes had clouded, grayed like the thunderhead above. "Because we chose."

The rain poured harder, louder. The deluge washed away Senior's trembling form. Corregan scrambled in the sudden loneliness. He looked up, into the rolling squall. He could not see the stars.

"Ambassador!" A shout over the rain. "Ambassador!" Louder. The clouds melted away, pulled past some invisible barrier. Corregan blinked. Jumba stood in front of him, yanking on his arm. "Ambassador! It is time to be sitting. We are about to breach troposphere—very rough air!"

His eyes were affixed to the screen while Jumba dragged him toward his chair. The clouds were densifying behind the invisible barrier. The thunderhead was off in the distance, sending lightning dashing across the screen intermittently. Jumba hoisted Corregan into his velveteen seat and fastened the restraints. Corregan dropped his head, and saw reflected in Stitch's dark eyes the clouds filling his own.

 _You chose_ , his mind repeated as the ship descended for several minutes. The jostle of touchdown could not break Corregan's trance. He stared ahead, rolling squalls in his eyes. _You chose_. A paw rested on his knee. "Here."

Corregan shuddered, and the clouds evaporated. Stitch wore a worried frown. Dark eyes reflected the stars twinkling in Corregan's own. "I'm…I'm sorry, Stitch. Thank you." Stitch looked unsatisfied as Corregan fumbled with his buckle while nursing one of his temples. "I'm fine," he added as the creature started to help the ambassador rise up on shaky legs. Jumba called for his greatest creation, who threw Corregan an incredulous glance before joining his creator.

Once the two had trundled ahead, the ambassador took a few moments to scan the console ring. The creatures busied themselves with a new series of clacks and beeps. _Ready to leave…to abandon us._ He ran a hand along the back of his chair, his fingers rolling along alien curves and grooves. His stomach twisted. _We chose._ He tried to shut out the view screen's long and low whine as it rebooted for the return voyage, but the sound dogged him as he abandoned the bridge.

Corregan reconnected with them at the ship's entrance. Jumba had set down the silver case and was busy chatting at one of the console creatures, a vespine critter that wore the universal look of misery as it was lowering the thick gray airlock door. A few rays of sunlight streamed through the widening crack. Absorbing the rays, Stitch's dark eyes were lambent as he cocked his head and clattered his claws.

"Stitch home?"

The antennae had receded, leaving bare the spot between two pink-lined ears. Corregan placed a hand between them and scratched. "Yes, Stitch. You're home." Wide dark eyes shuttered as the door let in more light. _Our home...and I will protect our home._

The door buried its lip into rusty clay. Stitch scurried out from Corregan's palm and joined Jumba in the Southern Florida sun, which rolling squalls and distant thunderclaps were chasing below the horizon. Over the din of crickets and beetles and a faraway but furious storm, Corregan listened halfheartedly to two aliens' shouts of happiness. Talk of _ʻohana_ and Lilo and _boojiboo_ and their little island drifted through sluggish air.

Distracted by their banter, he tapped his jacket's inner pocket. The emptiness collapsed. A bubble of wet air smacked his chin as a car horn honked. Corregan turned to watch a rear jet-black door fly open. Cool air curled across the muggy gap and beckoned him in. He blinked, and the eerie green characters rushed through his vision. He walked as they silently spelled out what awaited his home. _What have I done?_

#

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Coming 21 June - _Nine_ ( & The End)


	9. Nine - 349 Days Out

_Nine_

 _349 Days Out_

"How many boxes left, Jack?"

"Just a few, dad," Jack managed through staggered breathing as he hauled gear from the trunk of the flashy ruby red sports car Corregan had bought once spring had arrived. His wife had been extremely vocal with her disagreements, but Jack's jaw falling open at the sight made the strife worthwhile. A few co-eds were ogling the car's curves—Corregan gave the engine two gnarly revs, eliciting giggles as they rushed into the pale limestone dormitory.

"Y'know, you could _not_ do that, and help me instead."

"Where's the fun in that?" Corregan embellished with another turbocharged kick. He caught Jack's smile in the rearview mirror. "Hey, which girlfriend of yours picked this school?"

"Hah, nice one. None of 'em, actually. All on my own here…not necessarily a bad thing." A sly wink, and Jack raced inside with an armful of cardboard.

While he waited for his son to return, Corregan flipped off the engine and let the late summer breeze pour into his new ride. A wave cascaded through the zoysia grass covering the quadrangle. Jack had applied and been admitted to half a dozen universities, and had selected the one his father absolutely did not expect. Jack had also chosen not to commit to a track of study—a decision about indecision that sent Corregan's heart fluttering. Whenever that fluttering commenced, like it was in the driver's seat of his new car, he remembered the comment floated between guffaws in a long corridor far away from Earth.

Corregan glanced up through the sunroof. They had made excellent time in their journey to the campus, beating the sun to its August zenith. Twinkling stars materialized in the clear blue sky. He traced his finger along pretend constellations, pausing at one particular diamond around which revolved a world he had ached to revisit ever since he had plopped down on his couch, eyes locked on the stark black OLED TV screen, and dissolved into banality. His wife's note taped to the screen had enumerated her expectations for a grocery trip. Jack's first university application—a scribbled mess—had laid askew on the adjoining cushion. The quiet solitude of the empty house had frightened Corregan. He had risen from the couch to go stare out the window and be mesmerized by the capitol, set across the manicured lawn and under another field of stars. _I'm sorry, Senior._ He had hurriedly dried his tears when his son slammed the front door, returning after another day at a menial summer job he claimed he loved, shouting, "I haven't finished the game yet! Let's get to it—heard it was a good one!"

 _It was._ A car door popped open. Corregan restrained his gasp as Jack's hair, tousled by the rousing breeze, rustled around the rearview mirror's edge. "So, Dad," Jack said as he hefted the Styrofoam cooler from the floor and nestled it between a flexed bicep and his torso, "meant to ask—how _did_ you manage to get a recommendation letter from the President—well, former president?"

His pen had hovered over the signature line of the non-disclosure agreement long enough for the lawyer to clear his throat testily. Concerned at what his balking may sound like when it would undoubtedly be reported back to the President, who had been "out on tour" that day, Corregan scribbled his name and shoved the document away. He had asked about them, about their Hawaiian family, and about the world and the reality they faced. The lawyer had only grunted, much as he did now as he folded up the paper and shooed Corregan out the Oval Office door. The President's assistant stood at the exit, with a thin manila envelope in hand. She made a motion to hand it to him, but pulled back at the final moment. In a warbling soprano, she teased with, "Mr. Corregan, before you depart, the President had one question he wanted me to ask."

Corregan, weary from the lengthy debriefing session, clenched an eager fist. "And what would that be?"

"How was the water up there?"

The envelope tilted his way. Corregan smirked. "Bland." He snatched away his manila prize, and pried it open to unsheathe a glowing recommendation imprinted on White House stationery.

"Need to know, bud."

"Hmph, yeah, sure." Jack slammed the car door. "Can't even tell your _ʻohana_ …but can you at least tell me where ya found that word?"

Corregan shrugged. "Around."

Jack sighed dejectedly. "Probably the same place as that postcard." After another of his father's shrugs, Jack huffed, then carted the batch of supplies into his limestone dormitory.

The postcard had slid through the mail slot before Jack left to revel in his last summer's day. In between cardboard boxes replete with an eighteen-year-old's imagining of school supplies, it rested atop a pile of coming-due bills. Jack had discovered it first, and had taken it into the kitchen, drafty with a cooling breeze sluicing through open windows. Corregan broke from the morning newspaper splayed across the granite countertop to find his son flipping the card back and forth, scrunching his face more concertedly with each turn.

"Hey, Dad, who do you know in Hawaii?"

"Hawaii, eh?" Corregan snatched the postcard from his son, who gave a sharp shout of dismay. The noise awoke the seven-month-old Australian Shepherd, who bounded over to investigate the commotion. On the front of the card was painted a waterlogged beachfront with a scarlet sun setting below distant whitecaps and a palm tree waving in some ocean breeze. " _Aloha_ from Hawaii!" was emblazoned in excited block letters in the corner. Corregan turned it over to his name and address, and a mark he had seen before. He smiled.

"I mean, the return address isn't very helpful, and there's no message. Just a…a paw print. Did you work with some animal shelter, or welfare group, or…?" Jack trailed off while distractedly scratching the top of the puppy's head, right between his pink-lined ears.

Corregan ran his hand over the ink print. Even with the cooling breeze wrapping its way through the kitchen, he felt its warmth. "Yeah, something like that." His smile faded as he pocketed the postcard. "Now, make sure you get yourself packed up! We leave for school at dawn…ish."

Jack emerged from the arched doorway and stopped on the second step up from the lawn. Some garbled speech followed him out, and he responded with something of his own. Corregan beamed as a wide grin broke out on his son's face, chased by a sonorous laugh that bobbed through the crowded move-in day air and swirled around the car's interior. Pleased with his son, he let his eyes wander.

Above, a lone wispy cirrus was breaking apart, and the stars were twinkling, brighter in magnitude than he remembered. One especially noticeable star winked out, replaced with a dark occlusion. He squinted, and the outline of the starship that brought him home appeared. The spot shifted, and Corregan sat dumbfounded as it slithered its way through the sky, only to pause over the limestone dormitory. As it moved, it divided, and divided again, and again, until an armada was bearing down. His heart fluttered and his eyes were wide, lambent in the dying light of fading stars.

" _Dad_ …." It wafted from the dormitory. Guns were trained. Ships were poised. He gasped.

"Dad!"

"Huh?" Eyes pulled back to the car, to Jack. Corregan dabbed his forehead. Cold beads of sweat came away on his fingertips. A quick upward glance confirmed a clear blue sky. He clenched his fists and breathed. Jack looked perplexed as Corregan offered, "Sorry, what's up?"

"Um, well, I was just gonna say—this place is perfect! I love it."

"Great, I'm glad you're a fan, Jack. But y'know, you might be singin' a different tune in four years." _If we have four years_.

"Yeah, we'll see," he glibly responded. "But Dad, before I go…" Jack turned somber. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I—y-yes, of course. Why do you ask?"

Jack exhaled loudly as he popped open the car door and inserted himself into the passenger bucket seat. Two sets of piercing blue eyes met. "It's just that since you… _disappeared_ …for those three days, you've been acting strangely. Very unusual for you."

"I, I hadn't noticed."

"It's okay, Dad. You don't have to hide it. I think I know what's going on."

Corregan reeled. The nylon seat belt rubbed against his goosebumps. A warm paw rested on his knee. "You do?"

"Yeah. I mean, it's not too terribly difficult to figure out. And you don't have to worry."

Corregan blinked. "I don't?"

"No. I'll be fine here. It's scary sending your only kid to college—I get it, you're new to the empty nester thing. Plus, I figured you'd want me to pick something to study, to have that all planned out from the start…but I'm not there yet. I'll find something I love to do, don't worry about it! And don't worry about me…especially since you'll be the one keepin' Mom calm."

Relief and guilt battled in Corregan's stomach. He felt sick, like every other day since he had again dissolved into banality. The congenial eyebrow raise and smile belied the roiling pit deep within him. "That's great, son. I…I'll always worry, but I'm glad to hear you have, well, at least _some_ semblance of a plan. And don't talk about your mother like that…even if it's true." He tousled Jack's hair, eliciting a refulgent sheen in blue eyes. "Now, you best be gettin' outta here. Can't be seen hanging around too much with your dad." With a grin, Jack exited and then carefully latched the polished rear door.

The car rumbled with barely bridled power as Corregan ignited the engine and pulled down the drive, watching Jack in the rearview mirror. His son sauntered back to his new room and his new friends, disappearing into the dormitory. Corregan flipped on the radio, and tuned it to the local news station, which was in the midst of wrapping up coverage of the local city's baseball game. The half-filled water bottle rolled wildly in the leather-clad passenger seat, frustrating Corregan's efforts to slake a nagging thirst.

His hand grasped futilely for the bottle until the marbled university gates passed. The sultry voice of the afternoon news announcer had replaced the game on the airwaves. After a few local stories of little significance, she began her report on federal matters. Corregan turned up the volume. With a voice now drowning out the rumblings of the engine, she relayed her story.

"President Welton today continued dodging rumors of a covert military operation launched into outer space nearly a year ago. Though his predecessor is thought to have ordered the original operation, critics of Welton are concerned by their beliefs that an ongoing militarized presence in space is both present and has been cloaked by a top secret designation. Members of the United Nations delegation in New York have also recently voiced their concerns, citing the 1967 Outer Space Treaty, ratified by the U.S., which prohibits the weaponization of outer space by any one nation. Despite these persistent grumblings—and some concomitant and serious speculation on the potential involvement of extraterrestrial beings, some of whom are thought to currently reside on domestic soil—the White House has firmly maintained its stance that none such activity has been, nor is planned to be, undertaken…."

With welling schadenfreude, Corregan changed stations. _It's his problem now._ The "golden oldies" channel he settled for was in the middle of the refrain from a Fifties rock ballad. Bobbing his head to the tune, Corregan reached the edge of campus, and merged with the surprisingly sparse traffic leaving the area. Ahead, the narrow bridge spanning a babbling brook—lower than usual after the summer's drought—had oxidized. Pale green streaks of once-copper were interspersed with ferrous flecks. In the rising wind, the flecks left the bridge and dallied in the aerial current, glinting lazily in the afternoon sun, before gently landing in the sluggish stream below.

He watched the shining water as he approached the bridge entrance. He smacked his parched mouth. The thirst intolerable, Corregan took his eyes from the road and seized the water bottle with his dominant hand. Triumphantly, he flipped open the spout and brought the bottle to his lips.

He glanced to the road. The creature darted in front. Tires squealed. Gravity disappeared. The water spilled from its container as it tumbled to the floor, the hand uselessly gripping the wheel until knuckles whitened. Below, the ground twinkled with the field of stars.

A moment of blackness, then Corregan was on his feet. His oxfords sunk into the soft sand. The reddened sky complemented the swaying verdant palm trees and the distant oceanic whitecaps illuminated by a descending scarlet sun. Ten paces ahead sat a little blue figure, nestled into a deep divot in the beach. Corregan struggled over the minuscule dunes as he approached the figure. When he went to sit, it spun its head around, its wide dark eyes absorbing the last vestiges of sunlight.

" _Aloha!_ " greeted the creature. It smiled, baring rows of enamel daggers. Though the antennae and a set of limbs were missing, Corregan recognized it. Unflinchingly, he plunked down next to it and sighed.

"Hello, Stitch." Corregan reached out a hand and scratched the top of the creature's head, right between his swooping pink-lined ears. Stitch first furrowed his brow as he waxed quizzical, but he eventually acquiesced to the gesture with a contented murmur. Together, they silently observed the sun dip below the watery horizon. The sky shifted swiftly through magentas and indigos before settling on a vivid violet. A few stars winked into existence.

He settled on one particular star, breathtakingly faint from his spot on the beach. "There's a solace in ignorance," Corregan muttered as he retracted his hand.

An immediate and steadfast reply. " _Naga_."

Corregan met Stitch's wide dark eyes. The few stars shined within them. "Oh?"

"Better to know."

"For you, perhaps. As for me…."

" _Naga_. Better for _yu_ _uga_."

"Why?"

"Because _yu_ _uga_ not alone now." A paw rested on Corregan's knee. " _Yuuga_ have _ʻohana_."

"No...no, I had _ʻohana_ , Stitch." In his peripheral vision, Corregan watched little waves break on a nearby sandbar and plunge into the shoreline. "But that's gone now. I made a choice. And I betrayed them. I betrayed everyone on our home. I've doomed us. I've doomed our _ʻohana._ "

" _Naga._ _Yuuga_ chose _ʻohana..._ chose life. Not betrayed. Not doomed. Protected. Saved. And _yuuga_ always have _ʻohana._ Because _ʻohana_ always here." Stitch slapped a sandy paw against his chest. A heartbeat passed.

Corregan exhaled loudly and longingly. "Y'know, every day, I've wanted to tell my son where I went." He pointed a wavering finger at the star. "And every day, I balked at the chance. Sometimes, he asks. And I lie. I always grit my teeth, and I bear it, because I know what'll happen if I break." Larger waves pummeled the waterlogged sand. The oceanic horizon had swallowed the scarlet sun. "No, _ʻohana_ can't be here, because I won't let it be." Corregan's finger dropped as his head rose to the faint star brightening. "Because I keep it away. Because I _choose_."

A rustling. Corregan turned to the creature. Limbs and antennae had reappeared. Claws clattered against one another. Wide dark eyes shimmered. "Stitch _soka_."

"No, Stitch," Corregan soothed as he placed a hand on the furry sapphire cheek. "It's not your fault. It's not your burden to bear. It's my mantle to don. Alone."

A nascent goofy smile as wide dark eyes rose to the sky. Corregan peered into the pools. He smiled. In them, he saw the stars.

A flash of light, then an inverted world greeted his bleary eyes. Corregan fumbled for the belt lock, and groaned as he slipped from the bonds of his bucket seat. He pulled himself through the shattered window and splashed into the stream. As he rose, his navy blue jacket sopping, something warm, slick, ran down his cheek. He wiped. Crimson flecks spattered smooth stones. A postcard, torn and bleeding, floated past, the paw print sinking to the riverbed.

Afternoon sun shone golden through the gaps in the oxidized bridge. He stood. Pain shot through his legs. He grunted and fell to his knees. Sparkling water flowed past. Corregan watched the stars pour by. He pounded a fist. Stars spiraled through the air.

The tall summer cattails along the banks bobbed in the breeze. They waved as the creature moved about. Chilled water, barely reaching Corregan's ankles, permeated his oxfords. He looked to the bank and watched wide dark eyes melt away. _Stitch soka._

Corregan rolled onto his back as sirens approached. Eyes clouded, lost in a world, in a galaxy he did not recognize. _I'm sorry, Jack._ He closed his eyes and breathed, and fell into the field of stars.

END

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 ** _A/N -_** _Thanks for reading In His Own Stars! I hope you enjoyed your time in this world. It was both fun and challenging to create. Please let me know what you think of this chapter, and of the story as a whole. I look forward to reading your reviews and messages!_

 _P.S. Happy birthday to one little blue Experiment._


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